{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_48771/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_48771","id":"gutenberg_48771","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48771","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folklore -- Italy -- Rome","Legends -- Italy -- Rome"],"text":"ROMAN LEGENDS\n\n                            A COLLECTION OF\n                        THE FABLES AND FOLK-LORE\n                                OF ROME\n\n\n                                   BY\n                               R. H. BUSK\n                AUTHOR OF 'SAGAS FROM THE FAR EAST' &c.\n             'HOUSEHOLD STORIES FROM THE LAND OF HOFER' &c.\n\n\n                                 BOSTON\n                       Copyright and Published by\n                           ESTES AND LAURIAT\n                                  1877\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nI had heard it so often positively asserted that modern Italy had no\npopular mythology, and no contribution of special versions to offer to\nthe world's store of Traditionary Tales, that, while possessing every\nopportunity, I was many years without venturing to set myself against\nthe prevailing opinion so far as to attempt putting it to the proof.\n\nA certain humble friend, however, used time after time so to impress me\nwith the fancy that she had all the qualifications for being a valuable\nrepository of such lore if it only existed, that I was finally led to\nexamine her on the subject. She gave me a capital opportunity one day\nwhen, during a visit to a bedridden cripple whom she nursed, she was\nflapping the dust off the pictures and ornaments with a feather-brush\naccording to the Roman idea of dusting. 'I never do any dusting,'\nshe said the while, 'but I always think of Monsignor Delegato dusting\nthe altar of the holy house of Loreto. And now I think of it, he was\nnot called Monsignor Delegato, but Monsignor Commissario. But every\nevening of my life while I was young and living at Loreto, I have\nseen him dust the altar of the Santa Casa at 23 o'clock, [1] before\nthey shut up the church, saying a Salve Regina for the benefactors of\nthe spot.' If she was so familiar with Loreto, I concluded, and had\nso noticed and remembered its customs, probably she was not ignorant\nof its Legends either, and I commenced my inquisition at once.\n\nI have not given her Legends of Loreto in the text because,\nbeing tolerably familiar, they were among those which could best\nbe sacrificed to the exigencies of space. I gathered on that day,\nhowever, one version of S. Giovanni Bocca d'oro, with two stories of\nPadre Filippo: and her subsequent testimony concerning the crucifix\nof Scirollo came in usefully (pp. 193, 195) in illustration of the\nLegend of Pietro Bailliardo; but, what was precious to me above all,\nI gained the proof and earnest that there was certainly a vein of\nlegendary lore underlying the classic soil of Rome, and that it only\nremained to find the means of working it.\n\nI first lazily set myself to hunt through the bookshops, new and old,\nto find any sort of collection of traditionary tales ready made;\nbut only with the effect of establishing the fact that no Italian\nGrimm had yet arisen to collect and organise them, and put them into\navailable shape. [2]\n\nIt is true the erudite and indefatigable Cesare Cant\u00f9 has found time\nin the midst of his more important labours to illustrate some few\nremnants of medi\u00e6val customs and sayings yet lingering in the north\nof Italy, in his 'Novelle Lombarde;' and he tells me that the Balio\nBenvenuti, also of Milan, is bringing out another little volume about\nLombard customs; but even these have not approached the fairy tales,\nand leave Central and Southern Italy altogether untouched. [3]\n\nThe nearest approach to the material of which I was in search was\nafforded in the roughly printed rimed legends which itinerant venders\nsell at the church doors on festa days. Among the collection I have\nmade of these, are many whose quaintness gives them special interest,\nnotwithstanding their baldness of style and diction; but the matter\nwhich came to me first hand seemed to have the first claim to\npublication; and I have, therefore, put these among my reserve for\na second series. [4]\n\nNo repository of Roman Folklore was to be found ready-formed. 'Who\namong us,' writes Cesare Cant\u00f9 in his preface to his 'Novelle\nLombarde,' 'knows anything about these matters? If they were the things\nof Scotland or Touraine we should all have read them long ago in the\npages of Scott or Balzac. But here among us there are neither writers\nwho care to describe nor readers who take any interest in learning\nthe ways of our own country. People like to seem above giving their\nattention to such homely matters, and only care for what they must\nlook at through a telescope.'\n\nI was thus thrown back on my own powers of collecting, and found\nthe process, however fascinating where successful, much more uphill\nwork than it had promised to be at the outset. Legends, it is true,\nthere was less difficulty in obtaining. There might be some sense and\nsome moral in them, and I found people were not ashamed of knowing\nthem; but it long remained impossible to convince persons who had\neven betrayed to me indications that they possessed what I wanted,\nto own fully to a knowledge of bon\u00e2 fide Fairy Tales, or to believe\nthat I could be serious in wishing to listen to such childish nonsense.\n\n'But suppose you had a child to amuse,' I would say at last, 'I am\nsure you would sometimes tell it a marvellous story.'\n\n'Ah, a creatura, [5] yes! But I haven't the face to tell such nonsense\nto your signoria.'\n\n'Never mind that, if I want to hear it. Imagine I am the creatura,\nand tell me one of your tales. I want something about transformations,\nfairy gifts, and marvels of all sorts.'\n\nIn some such way, after due precaution taken to convince me that\nsuch things were only allowed a place in the memory for the sake of\namusing children, and not because anyone believed in them, one tale\nafter another would be suffered reluctantly to ooze out.\n\nBut you cannot make application for such wares to the first person\nyou meet. The class in which such lore is stored away is not indeed\nso exclusive that introductions to it are a very difficult matter,\nbut introduction of some sort you must have; some claim for taking up\na person's time, where time is money; and some means of compensation\nyou must devise, the more difficult to invent where direct payment\nwould be an offence. Your modern Romans are very independent; I\ncannot say whether the quality is more an inheritance from their\nancient forefathers, or adopted from the continental spread of\nFrench revolutionary ideas of '93. True, they are singularly urbane\nand deferential, but only so long as you are urbane and deferential\ntowards them. If you omit any of their peculiar forms of politeness,\nthey are suspicious of you, and scarcely know how to make allowance\nfor the well-meaning inexperience of a foreigner. If you want to learn\nanything from them you must submit to become one of them. You must\nconverse first on the subject uppermost in their minds, from the price\nof bread and meat to the latest change in the political atmosphere;\nonly when all is exhausted may you venture to come round to the matter\nof which you are in search. Many, too, in whose memories such stories\nhave lain dormant since childhood, for more than half a century, have\nnot the power of recalling them in due form or order for narration\non abrupt application, but will yet bring them out unconsciously if\npatiently led up to an appropriate starting point.\n\nNor is it every application, made with all precautions, that will be\nsuccessful. Often you must submit to be put off with the tantalising\nexperience that a person knew plenty of stories, but was quite\nincapable of putting them into shape. This happened once with an\nintelligent old lady from Siena, whom, after allowing her to indulge\nher irony at my expense concerning my childishness in seeking such\nthings, I brought to confess that she had heard in her youth a strange\nstory of a cat which wore stivali di cacciatore (hunter's boots),\nbut she could not succeed in recalling a single incident of it;\nand I was obliged to content myself with the information (no small\nencouragement in the early days of my work, however!) that 'Puss in\nBoots' had actually travelled to Tuscany.\n\nAt another time one would have to spend hours in listening to detached\nincidents altogether lacking a thread to connect them, or stories\nof which the point had been so completely lost that they could only\nhave been made available by means of a reconstruction too integral\nto be honestly attempted. As, e.g., 'Oh yes! I know a story of an\nenchantress who had a gown which made her invisible, and a pair\nof boots which would carry her a thousand miles without walking,\nbut I quite forget what she did with them.' Or else it might be, 'I\nknew a story of a king whose wife had been fatata (subjected to magic\ninfluence), and maligned by her mother-in-law while the king was gone\nto the wars; but that's all I remember, except that in the end the\nqueen was rehabilitated, and the mother-in-law punished'--incidents\nof stories recurring in every collection, but tantalisingly lacking\nall means of further particular identification with any. Sometimes,\ntoo, it would be only a title that could be recalled, and nothing\nmore, as in the case of a certain 'Uccello Biverde,' [6] which I\nhave been several times assured is 'a most beautiful story,' but I\nhave never yet succeeded in meeting with any one who could supply the\nnarrative. I have further felt called sometimes to exercise a difficult\nforbearance in withholding some specimens which at first promised to\nafford singular instances of interchanged episodes, but which there\nafterwards appeared reason to conclude were merely jumbled in the bad\nmemory of the narrator, and had, therefore, no individual interest,\nbut were rather calculated to mislead. [7]\n\nOne of my worst disappointments was the case of a very old woman, who,\nI am assured, knows more of such things than anyone in the world, but\nwhom nothing can induce to repeat them now. She has grown so toothless\nand tremulous and inconsecutive, that it is not easy to understand\nher; but I think her arguments are not difficult to appreciate in\nthe following way,--that having had a long run of weary bad fortune,\nshe had rather not dwell on stories where things turned out as one\ncould wish to have them. She wants to go to heaven, she says, and\nso she believes in God, and whatever else she must believe; but for\nanything more, for special interpositions of Providence, and anything\none is not obliged to believe, she had rather say nothing about all\nthat. 'But don't tell them then as if you believed them; tell them\nonly as a pastime; just to oblige me.' I thought I had moved her, but\nthe utmost she would yield was to promise to think about it before\nI came again: and when I came again she was as rigid as ever. It is\nvexatious to think that a vast store is going to the grave with her\nunder one's very eyes and that one cannot touch it.\n\nIt is further to be remarked, that while there are thus a vast number\nof persons holding the store of traditional myths, it by no means\nincludes the generality of the population; there is a still larger\nclass among whom every trace of such lore is lost. So destitute are\nthey of all knowledge of the kind, that it would be interesting to\ntrace back the antecedents of each, and so discover, if it might be,\nthe origin of this discrepancy; for not only have I found it impossible\nmyself to stir up any memory of such stories in half the people I\nhave applied to, (though, to all appearance, similarly circumstanced\nwith those who have proved the most communicative), but old 'gossips,'\nsitting by while the stories in the text were being poured out, have,\ntime after time, displayed a wonderment which proved that their very\nstyle was something quite new to them.\n\nNevertheless, in spite of all difficulties, a few years' patience\nhas put me in possession of a goodly bulk of popular stories not\nyielding in interest, I think, to those of any other country. The\ntales included in the present collection are but a portion of those\nwhich I have gathered within the limits of the Roman State. I hope\nto be able to complete at some future day the remainder that I have\ngathered both there and from other divisions of the former Heptarchy\nof Italy. The localities from which these have been chiefly drawn are\nPalombara, Capranica, Loreto, Sinigaglia, Viterbo, Cori, Palestrina,\nand, above all, Rome itself. One of my chief contributors had passed\nher whole existence--infancy, married life, and widow-hood--within\nthe limits of one parish in the heart of Rome.\n\nThe collection has arranged itself, according to the spontaneous\ntitling of the narrators, into four categories, and it may not be\nunimportant to note that Romans, always precise in their choice of\nlanguage, keep rigidly to these designations. I have, for instance,\nbeen on the very verge of passing over a whole mine of 'Esempj,' or\n'Ciarpe' by only asking for 'Favole' (and vice vers\u00e2). Remembering\nafterwards to say, 'I daresay you can, at all events, recall some\n\"Esempj,\" or \"Ciarpe,\"' I have received for answer, 'To be sure;\nwhy didn't you say sooner that such would suit you?'\n\nThe said four categories are,--\n\n1. Esempj, or those stories under which some religious or moral\nlessons might be conveyed, answering to what we call Legends. Though\nthe word Leggenda exists in the dictionary, and is not altogether\nunused, I have never once met it among the people.\n\n2. Ghost stories and local and family traditions. The latter are much\nmore carefully preserved than among our own people, [8] and the Roman\npoor will tell the tale (more or less accurately) of the virtues and\nvices of their great families, with a gusto which shows that they look\nupon them as something specially belonging to themselves; but the\nformer do not appear to have any recognised title, and the contempt\nin which they are held makes it very difficult to get hold of them,\nso that it is not very easy to avoid giving offence in approaching\nthe subject. Only by a prolonged and round-about conversation one may\nsometimes elicit excellent specimens brought in as matters of curious\npersonal experience by the very persons who, on direct questioning,\nhad repudiated all knowledge of anything of the sort.\n\n3. Favole. The word universally appropriated in Roman dialect for\n'Fairy Tales,' a not unclassical application of the term, I think,\nand continued in the 'Fabliaux' of the medi\u00e6val period. But when\nasking for them I have never had any given me belonging to the class\nwhich we call 'fables' in English.\n\n4. Ciarpe, expounded by Bazzarelli as parole vane, ciance; ciance\nbeing said, on the authority of Petrarch, to stand for parole vane,\nlontane dal vero, chiacchiera; chiacchiera being the equivalent for\ngossip. Versions of some stories in this category, notably No. 6,\n'L'Uccelletto' (The Little Bird), and 21, 'The Value of Salt,' we\nall heard in our English nurseries, while those under the heading of\n'La Sposa Cece' (The Simple Wife) belong to the same class as ours of\nthe man who being told to give his wife her medicine in a convenient\nvehicle, wheeled her about in a hand-barrow, while she swallowed it;\nor that of the idiotic couple who wasted their three precious chances\nin wishing three yards of black pudding on each other's noses,\nand then wishing it off again; but I do not know that we have any\nspecial technical designation for such. All the headings of which I\nhave given the Italian are those used by the narrators themselves.\n\nIt is impossible, in making acquaintance with these stories in\ntheir own language, not to regret having to put them into another\ntongue. Much of what is peculiar in them, and distinguishes them\nfrom their counterparts in other lands, is, of course, wrapped up in\nthe form of expression in which they are clothed. Divested of this,\nthey run the risk of losing the national character they have acquired\nduring their residence on Italian soil. I had purposed, therefore,\noriginally, to print an Italian version, side by side with the English\nrendering, but was obliged to renounce the arrangement, as it would\nhave proved too voluminous. I have only been able to preserve some\nfew of the vernacular idiosyncrasies in the notes, for the benefit of\nthose who take an interest in the people's characteristic utterances.\n\nI think I may safely say that the whole of the stories are\ntraditional. There were only two of my contributors who could have\nread them had they even existed in print. The best-instructed of them\nwas the one who gave me 'Prete Olivo' and 'Perch\u00e8 litigano i cani ed\ni gatti;' both of which I am clear, from 'asides' which accompanied\nthem concerning her father's manner of telling, she had heard from\nhis lips, even as she said.\n\nWith the exception of some of the Legends, Local Traditions, and\nCiarpe, there are few, either printed in this collection or among those\nI still hold in MS., the leading episodes of which (if not the entire\nstory) are not to be found in the collections of other countries;\nbut certain categories common in other countries are wanting in the\nRoman. One could not in making the collection but be struck with the\nalmost complete absence of stories of heroism and chivalry. There are\nsome, indeed, in which courageous deeds occur; but there is none of\nthe high-souled mettle which comes out so strong in Hungarian, Gaelic,\nand Spanish tradition, in many of the Teutonic and Breton, and some\nNorse and Russian tales. Several, we shall find, are identical stories,\nwith the grand and fierce element left out. I have never come across a\nsingle story of knightly prowess in any shape. I have in MS. one or two\ndragon stories, but no knights figure even in these. At the same time,\ntales of horror seem equally to have failed to fascinate the popular\nimagination, and we can trace again the toning down process in many\ninstances. I have in MS. several versions of the rather ghastly story\nof the boy who went out to discover Fear, but the Roman mind does\nnot often indulge in such scenes as it presents. Similarly, horrid\nmonsters are rare. 'Orco' himself is not painted so terrible as in\nother countries. Giants and dwarfs, again, being somewhat monstrous\ncreations, are not frequent. The stories about the Satiri were only\ntold me spontaneously by one narrator; one other owned to having\nheard of such beings on being questioned, but there is no general\npopular conception corresponding to the German ideas of wild men. I\nhave never met anyone who believed in the present existence of any\nsupernatural being of this class, [9] and rarely with any who imagined\nsuch had ever existed. 'The stories always say, \"there was a fairy\nwho did so and so:\" but were there ever fairies? Perhaps there were,\nperhaps there weren't,' soliloquised an old woman one day at the\nend of a tale; that was the strongest expression of opinion in their\nfavour that came in my way. Another said once, 'If there ever were\nsuch beings there would be now; but there certainly are not any now,\nso I don't believe there ever were any.' [10]\n\nAgain, religious legends, with admixture of pagan superstitions,\nseem rare. English readers may say that there is superstition in some\nof the legends in the text; but they only exaggerate the literalness\nwith which they deal with Gospel promises; there is little at variance\nwith it. The false tale of the pilgrim husband, pp. 355-6, is the most\ndevious from Christian doctrine that I have come across in Rome. I\ncannot fancy a Roman, however illiterate, gravely telling such stories\nas some of those which Mr. Ralstone gives us from Russia. The story\nof 'Pret' Olivo' is doubtless derivatively the same as Dr. Dasent's\n'Master Smith'; but the Roman version presents vastly less of the\npagan element.\n\nIn winding up his general remarks on the migrations of myths, Prof. de\nGubernatis gives as his opinion that 'the elementary myth was the\nspontaneous production of imagination and not of reflection;' ... that\n'morals have often been made an appendix to fables, but never entered\ninto the primitive fable;' that 'art and religion have made use of\nthe already existing myths (themselves devoid of moral conscience)\nas allegories for their own \u00e6sthetic and moral ends.' And it appears\nto me that the Romans, in adapting such elementary myths to legendary\nuse, have christianised them more than some other peoples.\n\nPacts with the Devil, in which the Germans revel, are rare; the story\nof 'Pietro Bailliardo' is one of the very few. It would seem that\nwitchcraft never at any time obtained any great hold upon the people\nof Rome, nor were witches ever treated with the same severity which\nbefell them in other parts of Europe. It is true that some stories\nabout witch-stepmothers wind up with 'e la brucciorno in mezzo alla\nPiazza,' [11] but I am inclined to think it is rather a 'tag' received\nfrom other countries, than an actual local tradition; and certainly\nby cross-questioning I failed to awaken in the memory of the 'oldest\ninhabitants' with whom I have had the opportunity of conversing any\ntradition of anything of the sort having actually taken place.\n\n'What do you know about burning witches in mezzo alla Piazza? I thought\nsuch things were never done in Rome?' I observed one day to one who\nended a story thus. 'Who said the story took place in Rome?' was the\nready reply. I received the same reply to the same observation from\nanother, with the addition of 'There was something about a king and\na queen in the story and in other stories I have told you, and we\nnever had a king or a queen of Rome--the one may belong to the same\ncountry as the other. Who knows what sort of a country such stories\ncome from!' A third answered, 'No; I don't believe witches were ever\nburnt by law in Rome; I have always heard say that our laws were less\nfierce than those of some other countries; but I can quite fancy that\nif the people found a witch doing such things as I have told you,\nthey would burn her all by themselves, law or no law.'\n\nOf course I have no pretension that my researches have been exhaustive,\nnor have I been, properly speaking, searching for superstitions, but\nin a good deal of intercourse with the uneducated, I have certainly\ncome across less of superstitious beliefs in Rome than collectors of\nFolklore seem to have met in other countries. The saying exists,\n\n\n                        Giorno di Venere,\n                        Giorno di Marte,\n                        Non si sposa,\n                        E non si parte. [12]\n\n\nBut I have seldom heard the lines quoted without the addition of,\n'But I don't believe in such things;' and a reference to the column\nof marriage announcements in the 'Times' will show that the prejudice\nagainst marrying in the month of May is, to say the least, quite as\nstrong among our own most highly-educated classes.\n\nIt is not altogether uncommon at the Parochial Mass, to hear along with\nbanns of marriage and other announcements, a warning pronounced against\nsuch and such a person whom private counsel has failed to deter from\n'dabbling in black arts;' but from the observations which I have\nhad the opportunity of making such persons find their dupes chiefly\namong the dissolute and non-believing. I know a very consistently\nreligious woman, and also singularly intelligent, who appeared to\nhave a salutary contempt for certain practices in which her husband,\na worthless fellow, who had long ago abandoned her and his religion\ntogether, indulged. 'He actually believes,' she told me one day,\n'that if you go out and stand on a cross road--not merely where\ntwo roads happen to cross each other, but where they actually make\na perfect cross--and if at the stroke of mezzogiorno in punto, you\ncall the Devil he is bound to come to you.'\n\n'He always kept a bag of particular herbs,' I heard from her another\ntime, 'hung up over the door, all shred into the finest bits. As he\nwas very angry if I touched them, I one day said, \"Why do you want\nthat bundle of herbs kept just there?\" and then he told me that it\nwas because no witch could pass under them without first having to\ncount all the minute bits, and that though it was true she might do\nso by her arts without taking them down and handling them, it was\nyet so difficult when they were shred into such an infinite number\nthat it was the best preservative possible against evil influences.'\n\nAnother class of infrequent occurrence in the Roman stories is that\nin which animals are prominent actors, other than those in which they\nare transformed men. The t\u00e1tos, the enchanted horse which excites so\ngreat enthusiasm in the Hungarian, and whose counterpart does great\nwonders also in the Gaelic tales, seems to be absolutely unknown, [13]\nas I think is also the class not uncommon in the Gaelic (e.g. 'Tales\nof the West Highlands,' i. 275 et seq.), also in the Russian Folklore,\np. 338, of birds made to pronounce articulate words analogous in sound\nto their own cries. [14] Such traditions would naturally find a hold\nrather among countrypeople than townspeople.\n\nFairies and witches are frequent enough, but the limits between\nthe respective domains assigned to them are not so marked as with\nus. Roman fairies, it will be seen, are by no means necessarily\n'fairy-like.' At the same time fairies, such as those described by\nMr. Campbell, 'West Highland Tales,' p. ci., are altogether unknown.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nFAVOLE.                                                    PAGE\n\n    Filagranata                                               3\n    The Three Love-Oranges (I Tre Merangoli di Amore)        15\n    Palombelletta                                            22\n    La Cenorientola                                          26\n    Vaccarella                                               31\n    Giuseppe L'Ebreo                                         39\n    The King who goes out to Dinner                          40\n    The Pot of Marjoram (Il Vaso di Persa)                   46\n    The Pot of Rue (Il Vaso di Ruta)                         57\n    King Otho                                                63\n    Maria Wood (Maria di Legno)                              66\n        Second Version                                       84\n        Third Version                                        90\n    La Candeliera                                            91\n    The Two Hunchbacked Brothers                             96\n    The Dark King (Il R\u00e8 Moro)                               99\n    Monsu Mostro                                            109\n    The Enchanted Rose Tree                                 115\n    Scioccolone                                             119\n    Twelve Feet of Nose (Dodici Palmi di Naso)              129\n    A Yard of Nose (Mezza Canna di Naso)                    136\n    The Chicory-seller and the Enchanted Princess           141\n    The Transformation-Donkey                               146\n    Signor Lattanzio                                        155\n    How Cajusse was Married                                 158\n\n\nLEGENDARY TALES AND ESEMPJ.\n\n    When Jesus Christ Wandered on Earth (Eight Tales)       173\n    Pietro Baillardo (Three Tales)                          189\n    S. Giovanni Bocca D'oro (Three Tales)                   196\n    Don Giovanni                                            202\n    The Penance of San Giuliano                             203\n    The Pilgrims                                            208\n    Santa Verdana                                           213\n    San Sidoro                                              214\n    The Fishpond of St. Francis (La Pescheria di\n        San Francesco)                                      214\n    St. Anthony (Five Tales)                                215\n    St. Margaret of Cortona                                 222\n    St. Theodora                                            225\n    Nun Beatrice                                            228\n    Padre Filippo (Eleven Tales)                            231\n    The Pardon of Asisi                                     244\n    Padre Vincenzo (Three Tales)                            246\n    Padre Fontanarosa (Three Tales)                         248\n    S. Giuseppe Labre (Three Tales)                         251\n    The Twelve Words of Truth                               254\n\n\nGHOST AND TREASURE STORIES AND FAMILY AND LOCAL TRADITIONS.\n\n    The Dead Man in the Oak-Tree                            259\n    The Dead Man's Letter                                   261\n    The White Soul                                          264\n    The White Serpent                                       267\n    The Procession of Velletri                              271\n    Smaller Ghost and Treasure Stories and Family and\n        Local Traditions (Thirteen Tales)                   273\n    Sciarra Colonna                                         284\n    Donna Olimpia                                           287\n    The Munificence of Prince Borghese                      291\n    'Pope Joan' (La Papessa)                                293\n    Giacinta Marescotti                                     294\n    Pasquino (Two Tales)                                    296\n    C\u00e8cing\u00f9lo                                               300\n    The Wooing of Cassandro                                 301\n    I Cocorni                                               305\n    The Beautiful Englishwoman                              305\n    The Englishman                                          308\n    The Marriage of Signor Cajusse                          309\n    The Daughter of Count Lattanzio                         311\n    Bellacuccia                                             313\n    The Satyr                                               315\n    The Satyrs                                              317\n    Amadea                                                  320\n    The King of Portugal                                    322\n\n\nCIARPE.\n\n    The Two Friars                                          327\n    The Preface of a Franciscan                             333\n    The Lenten Preacher                                     334\n    Ass or Pig                                              336\n    The Seven Clodhoppers                                   339\n    The Little Bird                                         341\n    The Devil who took to Himself a Wife                    343\n    The Root                                                346\n    The Queen and the Tripe-seller                          348\n    The Bad-tempered Queen (La Regina Cattiva)              354\n    The Simple Wife (La Sposa Cece) (Two Versions)          357\n    The Foolish Woman (La Donna Mattarella) (Two Versions)  367\n    The Booby (Il Tonto)                                    371\n    The Gluttonous Girl (La Ragazza Golosa)                 375\n    The Greedy Daughter (La Figlia Ghiotta)                 380\n    The Old Miser                                           382\n    The Miserly Old Woman                                   385\n    The Beggar and the Chick-Pea (Il Poverello Del Cece)    388\n    Doctor Grillo                                           392\n    Nina                                                    396\n    The Good Grace of the Hunchback (La Buona Grazia\n        Del Gobbo)                                          399\n    The Value of Salt                                       403\n    The Princess and the Gentleman                          406\n    The Happy Couple (I Sposi Felici)                       411\n    Una Camera di Locanda                                   416\n    The Countess's Cat                                      419\n    Why Cats and Dogs always Quarrel                        421\n    The Cats who Made their Master Rich                     422\n\n\nAPPENDICES.\n\n    Appendix A. p. xx.                                      425\n    Appendix B.                                             452\n    Appendix C. p. 195                                      431\n    Appendix D. p. 196                                      431\n    Appendix E. p. 208                                      432\n    Appendix F. p. 392                                      433\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFAVOLE.\n\n\nFILAGRANATA.\n\n\nOnce upon a time [15] there was a poor woman who had a great fancy\nfor eating parsley. To her it was the greatest luxury, and as she\nhad no garden of her own, and no money to spend on anything not an\nabsolute necessity of life, she had to go about poaching in other\npeople's gardens to satisfy her fancy.\n\nNear her cottage was the garden of a great palace, and in this garden\ngrew plenty of fine parsley; but the garden was surrounded by a wall,\nand to get at it she had to carry a ladder with her to get up by, and,\nas soon as she had reached the top of the wall, to let it down on the\nother side to get down to the parsley-bed. There was such a quantity\nof parsley growing here that she thought it would never be missed,\nand this made her bold, so that she went over every day and took as\nmuch as ever she liked.\n\nBut the garden belonged to a witch, [16] who lived in the palace, and,\nthough she did not often walk in this part of the garden, she knew\nby her supernatural powers that some one was eating her parsley; so\nshe came near the place one day, and lay in wait till the poor woman\ncame. As soon, therefore, as she came, and began eating the parsley,\nthe witch at once pounced down, and asked her, in her gruff voice,\nwhat she was doing there. Though dreadfully frightened, the poor\nwoman thought it best to own the whole truth; so she confessed that\nshe came down by the ladder, adding that she had not taken anything\nexcept the parsley, and begged forgiveness.\n\n'I know nothing about forgiveness,' replied the witch. 'You have eaten\nmy parsley, and must take the consequences; and the consequences are\nthese: I must be godmother to your first child, be it boy or girl;\nand as soon as it is grown to be of an age to dress itself without\nhelp, it must belong to me.'\n\nWhen, accordingly, the poor woman's first child was born, the witch\ncame, as she had declared she would, to be its godmother. It was\na fine little girl, and she gave it the name of Filagranata; after\nthat she went away again, and the poor woman saw her no more till\nher little girl was grown up old enough to dress herself, and then\nshe came and fetched her away inexorably; nor could the poor mother,\nwith all her tears and entreaties, prevail on her to make any exchange\nfor her child.\n\nSo Filagranata was taken to the witch's palace to live, and was put\nin a room in a little tower by herself, where she had to feed the\npigeons. Filagranata grew fond of her pigeons, and did not at all\ncomplain of her work, yet, without knowing why, she began to grow\nquite sad and melancholy as time went by; it was because she had no\none to play with, no one to talk to, except the witch, who was no\nvery delightful companion. The witch came every day, once in the day,\nto see that she was attending properly to her work, and as there was\nno door or staircase to the tower--this was on purpose that she might\nnot escape--the witch used to say when she came under the tower--\n\n\n        Filagranata, so fair, so fair,\n        Unloose thy tresses of golden hair:\n        I, thy old grandmother, am here; [17]\n\n\nand as she said these words, Filagranata had to let down her beautiful\nlong hair through the window, and by it the witch climbed up into\nher chamber to her. This she did every day.\n\nNow, it happened that about this time a king's son was travelling that\nway searching for a beautiful wife; for you know it is the custom\nfor princes to go searching all over the world to find a maiden fit\nto be a prince's wife; at least they say so.\n\nWell, this prince, travelling along, came by the witch's palace where\nFilagranata was lodged. And it happened that he came that way just as\nthe witch was singing her ditty. If he was horrified at the sight of\nthe witch, he was in proportion enchanted when Filagranata came to the\nwindow. So struck was he with the sight of her beauty, and modesty,\nand gentleness, that he stopped his horse that he might watch her as\nlong as she stayed at the window, and thus became a spectator of the\nwitch's wonderful way of getting into the tower.\n\nThe prince's mind was soon made up to gain a nearer view of\nFilagranata, and with this purpose he rode round and round the\ntower seeking some mode of ingress in vain, till at last, driven\nto desperation, he made up his mind that he must enter by the same\nstrange means as the witch herself. Thinking that the old creature had\nher abode there, and that she would probably go out for some business\nin the morning, and return at about the same hour as on the present\noccasion, he rode away, commanding his impatience as well as he could,\nand came back the next day a little earlier.\n\nThough he could hardly hope quite to imitate the hag's rough and\ntremulous voice so as to deceive Filagranata into thinking it was\nreally the witch, he yet made the attempt and repeated the words he\nhad heard--\n\n\n        Filagranata, thou maiden fair,\n        Loose thy tresses of golden hair:\n        I, thy old grandmother, am here.\n\n\nFilagranata, surprised at the soft modulation of voice, such as\nshe had never heard before, ran quickly to the window with a look of\npleasure and astonishment which gave her face a more winning expression\nthan ever.\n\nThe prince looked up, all admiration and expectation; and the thought\nquickly ran through Filagranata's head--'I have been taught to loose\nmy hair whenever those words are said; why should not I loose it to\ndraw up such a pleasant-looking cavalier, as well as for the ugly\nold hag?' and, without waiting for a second thought, she untied the\nribbon that bound her tresses and let them fall upon the prince. The\nprince was equally quick in taking advantage of the occasion, and,\npressing his knees firmly into his horse's flanks, so that it might\nnot remain below to betray him, drew himself up, together with his\nsteed, just as he had seen the witch do.\n\nFilagranata, half frightened at what she had done the moment the\ndeed was accomplished, had not a word to say, but blushed and hung\nher head. The prince, on the other hand, had so many words to pour\nout, expressive of his admiration for her, his indignation at her\ncaptivity, and his desire to be allowed to be her deliverer, that\nthe moments flew quickly by, and it was only when Filagranata found\nherself drawn to the window by the power of the witch's magic words\nthat they remembered the dangerous situation in which they stood.\n\nAnother might have increased the peril by cries of despair, or lost\nprecious time in useless lamentations; but Filagranata showed a\npresence of mind worthy of a prince's wife by catching up a wand of\nthe witch, with which she had seen her do wonderful things. With this\nshe gave the prince a little tap, which immediately changed him into\na pomegranate, and then another to the horse, which transformed him\ninto an orange. [18] These she set by on the shelf, and then proceeded\nto draw up the witch after the usual manner.\n\nThe old hag was not slow in perceiving there was something unusual\nin Filagranata's room.\n\n'What a stink [19] of Christians! What a stink of Christians!' she kept\nexclaiming, as she poked her nose into every hole and corner. Yet she\nfailed to find anything to reprehend; for as for the beautiful ripe\npomegranate and the golden orange on the shelf, the Devil himself could\nnot have thought there was anything wrong with them. Thus baffled,\nshe was obliged to finish her inspection of the state of the pigeons,\nand end her visit in the usual way.\n\nAs soon as she was gone Filagranata knew she was free till the next\nday, and so once more, with a tap of the wand, restored the horse\nand his rider to their natural shapes.\n\n'And this is how your life passes every day! Is it possible?' exclaimed\nthe prince; 'no, I cannot leave you here. You may be sure my good\nhorse will be proud to bear your little weight; you have only to mount\nbehind me, and I will take you home to my kingdom, and you shall live\nin the palace with my mother, and be my queen.'\n\nIt is not to be supposed but that Filagranata very much preferred the\nidea of going with the handsome young prince who had shown so devoted\nan appreciation of her, and being his queen, to remaining shut up in\nthe doorless tower and being the witch's menial; so she offered no\nopposition, and the prince put her on to his good horse behind him,\nand away they rode.\n\nOn, on, on, [20] they rode for a long, long way, until they came at\nlast to a wood; but for all the good horse's speed, the witch, who\nwas not long in perceiving their escape and setting out in pursuit,\nwas well nigh overtaking them. Just then they saw a little old woman\n[21] standing by the way, making signs and calling to them to arrest\ntheir course. How great soever was their anxiety to get on, so urgent\nwas her appeal to them to stop and listen to her that they yielded\nto her entreaties. Nor were they losers by their kindness, for the\nlittle old woman was a fairy, [22] and she had stopped them, not on\nher own account, but to give them the means of escaping from the witch.\n\nTo the prince she said: 'Take these three gifts, and when the witch\ncomes very near throw down first the mason's trowel; and when she\nnearly overtakes you again throw down the comb; and when she nearly\ncomes upon you again after that, throw down this jar [23] of oil. After\nthat she won't trouble you any more.' And to Filagranata she whispered\nsome words, and then let them go. But the witch was now close behind,\nand the prince made haste to throw down the mason's trowel. Instantly\nthere rose up a high stone wall between them, which it took the witch\nsome time to climb over. Nevertheless, by her supernatural powers she\nwas not long in making up for the lost time, and had soon overtaken\nthe best speed of the good horse. Then the prince threw down the comb,\nand immediately there rose up between them a strong hedge of thorns,\nwhich it took the witch some time to make her way through, and that\nonly with her body bleeding all over from the thorns. Nevertheless,\nby her supernatural powers she was not long in making up for the lost\ntime, and had soon overtaken the best speed of the good horse. Then\nthe prince threw down the jar of oil, and the oil spread and spread\ntill it had overflowed [24] the whole country side; and as wherever\nyou step in a pool of oil the foot only slides back, the witch could\nnever get out of that, so the prince and Filagranata rode on in all\nsafety towards the prince's palace.\n\n'And now tell me what it was the old woman in the wood whispered to\nyou,' said the prince, as soon as they saw their safety sufficiently\nsecured to breathe freely.\n\n'It was this,' answered Filagranata; 'that I was to tell you that\nwhen you arrive at your own home you must kiss no one--no one at all,\nnot your father, or mother, or sisters, or anyone--till after our\nmarriage. Because if you do you will forget all about your love for me,\nand all you have told me you think of me, and all the faithfulness\nyou have promised me, and we shall become as strangers again to\neach other.'\n\n'How dreadful!' said the prince. 'Oh, you may be sure I will kiss no\none if that is to be the consequence; so be quite easy. It will be\nrather odd, to be sure, to return from such a long journey and kiss\nnone of them at home, not even my own mother; but I suppose if I tell\nthem how it is they won't mind. So be quite easy about that.'\n\nThus they rode on in love and confidence, and the good horse soon\nbrought them home.\n\nOn the steps of the palace the chancellor of the kingdom came\nout to meet them, and saluted Filagranata as the chosen bride the\nprince was to bring home; he informed him that the king his father\nhad died during his absence, and that he was now sovereign of the\nrealm. Then he led him in to the queen-mother, to whom he told all\nhis adventures, and explained why he must not kiss her till after his\nmarriage. The queen-mother was so pleased with the beauty, and modesty,\nand gentleness of Filagranata, that she gave up her son's kiss without\nrepining, and before they retired to rest that night it was announced\nto the people that the prince had returned home to be their king,\nand the day was proclaimed when the feast for his marriage was to\ntake place.\n\nThen all in the palace went to their sleeping-chambers. But the prince,\nas it had been his wont from his childhood upwards, went into his\nmother's room to kiss her after she was asleep, and when he saw her\nplacid brow on the pillow, with the soft white hair parted on either\nside of it, and the eyes which were wont to gaze on him with so much\nlove, resting in sleep, he could not forbear from pressing his lips\non her forehead and giving the wonted kiss.\n\nInstantly there passed from his mind all that had taken place since\nhe last stood there to take leave of the queen-mother before he\nstarted on his journey. His visit to the witch's palace, his flight\nfrom it, the life-perils by the way, and, what is more, the image of\nFilagranata herself,--all passed from his mind like a vision of the\nnight, and when he woke up and they told him he was king, it was as\nif he heard it for the first time, and when they brought Filagranata\nto him it was as though he knew her not nor saw her.\n\n'But,' he said, 'if I am king there must be a queen to share my\nthrone;' and as a reigning sovereign could not go over the world\nto seek a wife, he sent and fetched him a princess meet to be the\nking's wife, and appointed the betrothal. The queen-mother, who loved\nFilagranata, was sad, and yet nothing that she could say could bring\nback to his mind the least remembrance of all he had promised her\nand felt towards her.\n\nBut Filagranata knew that the prince had kissed his mother, and this\nwas why the spell was on him; so she said to her mother-in-law: 'You\nget me much fine-sifted flour [25] and a large bag of sweetmeats, and I\nwill try if I cannot yet set this matter straight.' So the queen-mother\nordered that there should be placed in her room much sifted flour and\na large bag of sweetmeats. And Filagranata, when she had shut close\nthe door, set to work and made paste of the flour, and of the paste\nshe moulded two pigeons, and filled them inside with the comfits. Then\nat the banquet of the betrothal she asked the queen-mother to have her\ntwo pigeons placed on the table; and she did so, one at each end. But\nas soon as all the company were seated, before any one was helped,\nthe two pigeons which Filagranata had made began to talk to each other\nacross the whole length of the table: and everybody stood still with\nwonder to listen to what the pigeons of paste said to each other.\n\n'Do you remember,' said the first pigeon, 'or is it possible that you\nhave really forgotten, when I was in that doorless tower of the witch's\npalace, and you came under the window and imitated her voice, saying,--\n\n\n        Filagranata, thou maiden fair,\n        Loose thy tresses of golden hair:\n        I, thy old grandmother, am here,\n\n\ntill I drew you up?'\n\nAnd the other pigeon answered,--\n\n'Si, signora, I remember it now.'\n\nAnd as the young king heard the second pigeon say 'Si, signora,\nI remember it now,' he, too, remembered having been in a doorless\ntower, and having sung such a verse.\n\n'Do you remember,' continued the first pigeon, 'how happy we were\ntogether after I drew you up into that little room where I was\nconfined, and you swore if I would come with you we should always be\ntogether and never be separated from each other any more at all?'\n\nAnd the second pigeon replied,--\n\n'Ah yes! I remember it now.'\n\nAnd as the second pigeon said 'Ah yes! I remember it now,' there rose\nup in the young king's mind the memory of a fair sweet face on which\nhe had once gazed with loving eyes, and of a maiden to whom he had\nsworn lifelong devotion.\n\nBut the first pigeon continued:--\n\n'Do you remember, or have you quite forgotten, how we fled away\ntogether, and how frightened we were when the witch pursued us, and\nhow we clung to each other, and vowed, if she overtook us to kill us,\nwe would die in each other's arms, till a fairy met us and gave us the\nmeans to escape, and forbad you to kiss anyone, even your own mother,\ntill after our marriage?'\n\nAnd the second pigeon answered,--\n\n'Yes, ah yes! I remember it now.'\n\nAnd when the second pigeon said, 'Yes, ah yes! I remember it now,'\nthe whole of the past came back to his mind, and with it all his love\nfor Filagranata. So he rose up [26] and would have stroked the pigeons\nwhich had brought it all to his mind, but when he touched them they\nmelted away, and the sweetmeats were scattered all over the table,\nand the guests picked them up. But the prince ran in haste to fetch\nFilagranata, and he brought her and placed her by his side in the\nbanquet-hall. But the second bride was sent back, with presents,\nto her own people.\n\n'And so it all came right at last,' pursued the\nnarrator. 'Lackaday! that there are no fairies now to make things\nall happen right. There are plenty of people who seem to have the\ndevil in them for doing you a mischief, but there are no fairies to\nset things straight again, alas!'\n\n\n\n[I have placed this story first in order, as its incidents ramify\ninto half the traditionary tales with which we are acquainted.\n\n(1.) 'Rapunzel,' No. 12 in 'Grimm,' is the most like it among the\nGerman in the beginning, and has the most dissimilar ending. The\ncounterpart form, in which it is some misdeed or ill-luck of the\nfather instead of the mother, which involves the surrender of the\nfirst-born, is the more frequent opening, as in 'The Water King,'\nRalston's 'Russian Folk Tales,' p. 120. 'The Lassie and her Godmother,'\nin Dr. Dasent's 'Norse Tales,' has an opening like 'Filagranata,'\nwhich, as it proceeds, connects it with 'Marienkind,' No. 4 in\n'Grimm;' and the prohibition to open the room, in that one, carries\non the connexion to another group, the Bluebeard group, represented\nin this series by 'Monsoo Mostro,' 'R\u00e8 Moro,' &c.; while, further on,\n'Lassie and her Godmother' evolves the incident of the reflection\nin the well, which connects it with the following story in this\ncollection, and in this roundabout way, though not in direct form,\nwith the termination of 'Filagranata.'\n\n(2.) The introduction of an orange as a help to defy the 'orca,'\nconnects the story again with the two next (though the fruit is\nused differently), and with a vast number of myths, as pointed\nout in Campbell's 'Tales of the West Highlands,' Introduction,\npp. lxxx-lxxxv. I was rather put off the scent by the narrator using\nthe word portogallo: melagranata, though properly a pomegranate,\nis, I think, used in old Italian for an orange, being simply a red,\nor golden, apple.\n\n(3.) The three gifts of the trowel, the comb, and the oil-filler,\nagain bring this story in connexion with another vast group. Compare\n'Campbell,' iv. 290; also his remarks, i. 58-62, on the 'Battle of the\nBirds,' which story this resembles in the main, but, as will be found\nthroughout this collection, the Roman form is milder. The prince wins\nhis bride without performing tasks, and the couple, in escaping, have\nonly to kill a strange 'orca,' and not the girl's own father. In the\nthird version of the tale in Mr. Campbell's series, the girl becomes\na poultry-maid, and has three fine dresses, constituting a link with\nanother group--that of Cinderella (I have given the Tirolean one as\n'Klein-Else' in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer'); and the\nthree dresses there (though not in the Gaelic story) representing the\nsun, moon, and stars, give it another connexion with 'Marienkind.' 'The\nMaster Maid,' in Dr. Dasent's collection, again, has the golden apple\n(though it assists in a different way) and the ending of the Roman\nversion (a golden cock there taking the part of the two paste pigeons),\nbut begins with the tasks in the 'Giant's House' of the Gaelic version,\nwhich the Roman ignores.\n\nIn the Russian story of 'Baba Yaga' (Ralston's 'Russian Folk Tales,'\npp. 139) we have the three magic gifts. Though Mr. Campbell has a\nvery ingenious solution for the idea of the supernatural attaching\nto swords (i. lxxii), the same does not seem at all to explain\nthe introduction of supernatural combs; when I once found a comb\ntransformed into a mountain in a Tirolean story, I thought, as\nMr. Ralston has also suggested (p. 144), that it fitted very well\nwith the German expression for a mountain-ridge; but he does not tell\nus whether the metaphor holds good in Russ, where he finds it used;\nand in the present instance it is a hedge of thorns into which the\ncomb resolves itself. I have another Roman story, in which the comb\n'swelled and swelled till every one of its teeth became a pier, and\nthe spaces between them were arches, and it was a bridge by which\none could pass over.'\n\n(4.) The kiss which brings forgetfulness, again, is found in the\nmyths of every country. It occurs in the Tirolean story I have given\nas the 'Dove-Maiden' in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer,'\nthough I had to omit it there for want of space; but the remaining\nepisodes of that story are nearly identical with those of the Russian\nstory of 'The Water-King;' and in the Tirolean story the maiden\nis fetched from a heathen magician's house by the aid of saints,\nwhile in the others it is from giants' or witches' abodes, by aid\nof other giants and witches. Mr. Ralston supplies, at pp. 132-7,\na long list of variants of this story, and in a Russian one, at\np. 133, comes a ride on a Bear, which is one of the incidents in the\n'Dove-Maiden,' though, if I remember right, it does not occur in any\nof the others. In Mr. Campbell's notes to 'The Battle of the Birds'\nare also collected notices of variants of this episode.\n\nThe affinity of this story with others again will be found in Mr. Cox's\n'Mythology of the Aryan Nations,' ii. p. 301.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE THREE LOVE-ORANGES. [27]\n\n\nThey say there was a king's son who went out to hunt. [28] It was a\nwinter's day, and the ground was covered with snow, so that when he\nbrought down the birds with his arquebuse the red blood made beautiful\nbright marks on the dazzling white snow.\n\n'How beautiful!' exclaimed the prince. 'Never will I marry till I\nfind one with a complexion fair as this snow, and tinted like this\nrosy blood.'\n\nWhen his day's sport was at an end, he went home and told his parents\nthat he was going to wander over the world till he found one fair\nas snow, tinted like rosy blood. The parents approved his design and\nsent him forth.\n\nOn, on, on he went, till one day he met a little old woman, who\nstopped him, saying: 'Whither so fast, fair prince?'\n\nHe replied, 'I walk the earth till I find one who is fair as snow,\ntinted like rosy blood, to make her my wife.'\n\n'That can I help you to, and I alone,' said the little old woman, who\nwas a fairy; and then she gave him the three love-oranges, telling him\nthat when he opened one such a maiden as he was in search of would\nappear, but he must immediately look for water and sprinkle her,\nor she would disappear again.\n\nThe prince took the oranges, and wandered on. On, on, on he\nwent, till at last the fancy took him to break open one of the\noranges. Immediately a beautiful maiden appeared, whose complexion was\nindeed fair as snow, and tinted like rosy blood, but it was only when\nshe had already disappeared that he recollected about the water. It\nwas too late, so on he wandered again till the fancy took him to open\nanother orange. Instantly another maiden appeared, fairer than the\nother, and he lost no time in looking for water to sprinkle her, but\nthere was none, and before he came back from the search she was gone.\n\nOn he wandered again till he was nearly home, when one day he noticed\na handsome fountain standing by the road, and over against it a fine\npalace. The sight of the fountain made him think of his third orange,\nand he took it out and broke it open.\n\nInstantly a third maiden appeared, far fairer than either of the\nothers; with the water of the fountain he sprinkled her the moment\nshe appeared, and she vanished not, but staid with him and loved him.\n\nThen he said, 'You must stay here in this bower while I go on home\nand fetch a retinue worthy to escort you.'\n\nIn a palace opposite the fountain lived a black Saracen woman, [29]\nand just then she went down to the fountain to draw water, and as\nshe looked into the water she said, 'My mistress says that I am so\nugly, but I am so fair, therefore I break the pitcher and the little\npitcher.' [30]\n\nThen she looked up in the bower, and seeing the beautiful maiden, she\ncalled her down, and caressed her, and stroked her hair, and praised\nher beauty; but as she stroked her hair she took out a magic pin,\nand stuck it into her head, and instantly the maiden became a dove\nand perched on the side of the fountain.\n\nThen she broke the pitcher and the little pitcher, and the prince\ncame back.\n\nWhen the prince saw the ugly black woman standing in the bower where\nhe had left his beautiful maiden, he was quite bewildered, and looked\nall about for her.\n\n'I am she whom you seek, prince,' said the woman. 'It is the sun has\nchanged me thus while standing here waiting for you; but all will\ncome right when I get away from the sun.'\n\nThe prince did not know what to make of it, but there was no help for\nit but to take her and trust to her coming right when she got away from\nthe sun. He took her home, therefore, and right grand preparations were\nmade for the royal marriage. Tapestries were hung on the walls, and\nflowers strewed the floor, while in the kitchen was the cook as busy\nas a bee, preparing I know not how many dishes for the royal banquet.\n\nThen, lo, there came and perched on the kitchen window a little dove,\nand sang, 'Cook, cook, for whom are you cooking; for the son of the\nking, or the Saracen Moor? May the cook fall asleep, and may all the\nviands be burnt!' [31]\n\nAfter this nothing would go right in the kitchen; every day all the\ndishes got burnt, and it was impossible to give the wedding banquet,\nbecause there was nothing fit to send up to the table. Then the king's\nson came into the kitchen to learn what had happened, and they showed\nhim the dove which had done all. 'Sweet little dove!' said the prince,\nand, catching it in his hand, began to caress it; thus he felt the\npin in its head, and pulled it out. Instantly his own fair maiden\nstood before him, white as snow, rosy as blood. Then the mystery was\ncleared up, and there was great rejoicing, and the old witch was burnt.\n\n\n\n[This story, besides its similarities with those mentioned in note\nof the foregoing, is substantially the same as 'Die weisse u. die\nschwarze Braut' in Grimm (with his 'Schneeweisschen u. Rosenroth'\nit seems to have nothing in common, though the words 'Snow-white and\nrose-red' suggest it); but its commencement is different. The German\nTale of Sneewittchen (Grimm, p. 206 has also much similarity with\nit: a queen sat working in a window framed with ebony; she pricks\nher finger, and three drops of blood that fall on the snow suggest\nthe wish that her child may be fair as snow, red as blood, and her\nhair as dark as ebony. Her wishes are fulfilled, and she dies. She is\nsucceeded by a witch-stepmother, from whom the child of wishes suffers\nmany things, but the witch is ultimately danced to death in red-hot\niron shoes. A link between them is supplied by the next following,\nin which the opening agrees with the German story. In Schneller's\n'Legends of the Italian Tirol' are two, with a title similar to the\nRoman one. In the first ('I tre aranci') the girl becomes the property\nof a fairy, as in Filagranata. She is sent to fetch three oranges,\nwhich she does by the help of five gifts given her by an old man;\nbut the whole ends in the good child wishing as her only reward to be\nrestored to her mother. The other is called 'L'amor dei tre aranci.' In\nthis the prince breaks a witch's milkjug while playing at ball, and in\nrevenge she tells him he shall not marry till he finds 'the Love of the\nthree oranges,' which he similarly obtains by the help of five gifts\nreceived of an old woman; when he opens them, the story goes on just\nlike the Roman one, the verse of the dove being a little different:--\n\n\n          Cogo, bel cogo,\n          Endormeazate al fogo,\n          Che l'arrosto se possa brusar,\n        E la fiola (figlia) della stria non ne possa magnar.\n\n\nand there is nothing about 'fair as snow, rosy as blood,' in it. He\nhas another, 'Quel dalla coda di oro,' in which three golden apples\nor balls play a prominent part, but it belongs to another group. A\nsecond version of this, entitled 'I pomi d' oro,' however, is a\nstrange mixture of the various Tirolean and Roman versions.\n\nThe Hungarian story of 'Vas Laczi' (Iron Ladislas) begins, like\n'L'amor dei tre aranci,' by a young prince getting into a scrape with\na witch, this time by breaking her basket of eggs. His punishment\nis the fulfilment of his first wish, and his first wish happens to\nbe a pettish one, that the earth might swallow up his three sisters;\nas one of them is said to be always dressed like the sun, the second\nlike the moon, and the third like the stars, we have a link with\nthe German Marienkind and the Tirolean Klein-Else. Afterwards Iron\nLadislas goes in search of his sisters, and encounters many heroic\nadventures and many transformations, in one of which a tree in a\ndragon's garden with golden apples is a prominent detail.\n\nA tree with golden fruit is also an important incident in the\nprincipal and most popular of Hungarian myths, that of 'T\u00fcnd\u00e9r Ilona'\n(Fairy Helen). As it is seen depicted on the thirteen compartments\nof the grand staircase walls of the National Club at Pest, T\u00fcnd\u00e9r\nIlona appears in the first as the Goddess or Queen of Summer held in\nthrall by the stern witch the Goddess or Queen of Winter. She is seen\nplanting in the territory of the Earth-King a tree which represents\nher earnest longings after freedom, and committing it to the benign\ninfluence of the Sun-King.\n\nThe second shows this mystical tree bearing its golden fruit, which the\nbeautiful Fairy, as if ashamed of her boldness, is hasting to pluck\noff, borne on a chariot formed of obedient swans. The Wind-genius\nwafts poppy seeds over the eyes of the armed guard the Winter-Queen\nhad set round the tree, and lulls them to sleep.\n\nIn the third Argilus, the Earth-Prince, is seen surprising in his (up\ntill then vain) nightly attempt to gather the golden fruit, T\u00fcnd\u00e9r\nIlona's departing convoy. He aims an arrow at the coy plunderer;\nthen suddenly a glance from her pierces his heart instead, and he\nlets the arrow harmlessly strike the ground.\n\nThe fourth portrays the happy union of Ilona and Argilus, Summer\nand Earth; but the Winter-Queen comes by enraged at their successful\ndefiance of her, and cuts off Ilona's beautiful golden locks. (The\npeople have it that these locks borne along by the winds planted\nthe Puszta with the beautiful long feathery grass which they call\n'Orphan-girl's hair'). In the distance are seen the parents of the\nEarth-Prince hurrying forward in search of their son.\n\nThe fifth shows T\u00fcnd\u00e9r Ilona waking from her delicious slumber, and\non discovering the loss of the mantle of her hair, hasting back in\nagony to her swan-chariot. Argilus in vain stretches out his arms\nafter her, and prays her to remain always with him.\n\nIn the sixth the scene is changed to the dwelling of the\nEarth-King. Prince Argilus is taking leave of his parents as he starts\non his perilous journey, determined to deliver the captive Fairy.\n\nIn the seventh the Earth-Prince has advanced on his journey as far\nas the dwelling of a giant, of whom he asks counsel, and who appoints\nhim three witches to show the way to regain the T\u00fcnd\u00e9r.\n\nIn the eighth he is seen victorious in a late conflict with three\ngiants, from each of whom he has succeeded in gaining an instrument\nnecessary for his purpose; from one a switch, from another a pipe,\nfrom the third a conjuring mantle. The giants throw down masses of\nrock upon him, but he spreads out the conjuring mantle, and committing\nhimself to it, floats securely through the air.\n\nIn the ninth Argilus has reached the Winter-Witch's border, and\nprepares to engage in combat with the dragon who guards it.\n\nThe tenth is highly sensational. The Winter-Witch has thrown a deep\nsleep over him, and the poor Summer-Fairy strives to awaken him\nin vain.\n\nIn the eleventh the ardent desires of T\u00fcnd\u00e9r Ilona have prevailed\nover all the enchantments of the Winter-Witch, and at her prayer there\nrises up from the innermost region of the earth the fairy Iron-Queen,\nwho brings the T\u00e1tos, the winged magic horse who is to bear the Prince\nthrough all dangers to certain victory.\n\nThe twelfth shows Argilus and Ilona once more united, enthroned side\nby side, and subjects bearing them offerings.\n\nThe thirteenth is a large composition symbolising the mystic\nunion of Earth and Summer, whence sprang, says the myth, Autumn\nwith her abundant fruits, and the great god Pan, the author of all\nproductiveness, who called the land of his birth after his own name\nand blessed it with fecundity above all nations of the earth. The\ntree of golden fruit, the first occasion of the auspicious meeting\nwhich led to this union, is again introduced, and T\u00fcnd\u00e9r Ilona is\nagain clothed in her luxuriant mantle of golden hair.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPALOMBELLETTA. [32]\n\n\nThey say there was a peasant whose wife had died and left him one\nlittle girl, who was the most beautiful creature that ever was seen;\nno one on earth could compare with her for beauty. After a while the\npeasant married again: this time he married a peasant-woman who had\na daughter who was the most deformed object that ever was seen; no\ncripple on earth could compare with her for deformity; and, moreover,\nher skin was quite black and shrivelled, and altogether no one could\nbear to look at her, she was so hideous.\n\nOne day when everyone was out, and only the fair daughter at home, the\nking came by from hunting thirsty, and he stopped at the cottage and\nasked the fair maid for a glass of water. When he saw how fair she was\nand with what grace she waited on him, he said, 'Fair maiden, if you\nwill, I will come back in eight days and make you my wife.' The maiden\nanswered, 'Indeed I will it, your Majesty!' and the king rode away.\n\nWhen the stepmother came home the simple maiden told her all that\nhad happened, and she answered her deceitfully, congratulating her\non her good fortune. Before the day came round, however, she shut\nthe fair maiden in the cellar. When the king came she went out to\nmeet him with a smiling face, saying, 'Good day, Sire! What is your\nroyal pleasure?' And the king answered, 'To marry your daughter am I\ncome.' Then the stepmother brought out her own daughter to him, all\nwrapped up in a wide mantle, and her face covered with a thick veil,\nand a hood over that.\n\n'Rest assured, good woman, that your daughter will be my tenderest\ncare,' said the king; 'but you must take those wrappers off.'\n\n'By no means, Sire!' exclaimed the stepmother. 'And beware you do\nit not. You have seen how fair she is above all the children of\nearth. But this exceeding beauty she has on one condition. If one\nbreath of air strike her she loses it all. Therefore, Oh, king! let\nnot the veil be removed.'\n\nWhen the king heard that he called for another veil, and another\nhood, and wrapping her still more carefully round, handed her into\nthe carriage he had brought for her, shut the door close, and rode\naway on horseback by her side.\n\nWhen they arrived at the palace the hideous daughter of the stepmother\nwas married to the king all wrapt up in her veils.\n\nThe stepmother, however, went into her room, full of triumph at what\nshe had done. 'But what am I to do with the other girl!' she said to\nherself; 'somehow or other some day she will get out of the cellar,\nand the king will see her, and it will be worse for my daughter than\nbefore.' And as she knew not what to do she went to a witch to help\nher. 'This is what you must do,' said the witch; 'take this pin'\n(and she gave her a long pin with a gold head), 'and put it into the\nhead of the maiden, and she will become a dove. Then have ready a cage,\nand keep her in it, and no one will ever see her for a maiden more.'\n\nThe stepmother went therefore, and bought a cage, and taking the\nlarge pin [33] down into the cellar, she drove the pin into the fair\nmaiden's head, holding open the cage as she did so.\n\nAs soon as the pin entered the maiden's head she became a dove, but\ninstead of flying into the cage she flew over the stepmother's head\nfar away out of sight.\n\nOn she flew till she came to the king's palace, right against the\nwindow of the kitchen where the cook was ready preparing a great\ndinner for the king. The cook looked round as he heard the poor\nlittle dove beating its frightened breast against the window, and,\nfearful lest it should hurt itself, he opened the window.\n\nIn flew the dove as soon as he opened the window, and flew three\ntimes round his head, singing each time as she did so:--'O cook! O\ncook! of the royal kitchen, what shall we do with the Queen? All of\nyou put yourselves to sleep, and may the dinner be burnt up!' [34]\n\nAs soon as she had sung this the third time the cook sank into a deep\nsleep; the dinner from want of attention was all burnt up; and when\nthe king sat down to table, there was nothing to set before him.\n\n'Where is the dinner?' exclaimed the king, as he looked over the\nempty table to which he had brought his bride, still wrapt up in her\nthick veils.\n\n'Please your Majesty, the dinner is all burnt up as black as charcoal,'\nsaid the chamberlain; 'and the cook sits in the kitchen so fast asleep\nthat no one can wake him.'\n\n'Go and fetch me a dinner from the inn,' said the king; 'and the cook,\nwhen he comes to himself, let him be brought before me.'\n\nAfter a time the cook came to himself, and the chamberlain brought\nhim before the king.\n\n'Tell me how this happened,' said the king to the cook. 'All these\nyears you have served me well and faithfully; how is it that to-day,\nwhen the dinner should have been of the best in honour of my bride,\neverything is burnt up, and the king's table is left empty?'\n\n'Indeed, the dinner had been of the best, Sire,' answered the cook. 'So\nhad I prepared it. Only, when all was nearly ready, there came a\ndove flying in at the window, and flew three times round my head,\nsinging each time,\n\n\n        Cook of the royal kitchen,\n          What shall we do with the Queen?\n        Sleep ye all soundly, and burnt be the meal\n          Which on the King's board should have been.\n\n\nAfter that a deep sleep fell on me and I know nothing more of what\nhappened.'\n\n'That must have been a singular dove,' said the king; 'bring her to\nme and you shall be forgiven.'\n\nThe cook went down to look for the dove, and found her midway, flying\nto meet him.\n\n'There is the dove, Sire,' said the cook, handing the dove to the king.\n\n'So you spoilt my dinner, did you palombelletta,' said the king. 'But\nnever mind; you are a dear little dove, and I forgive you,' and he\nput her in his breast and stroked her. Thus, as he went on stroking\nand fondling her, calling her 'palombelletta bella!' he felt the gold\nhead of the stepmother's big pin through the feathers. 'What have you\ngot in your head, palombelletta dear?' he said, and pulled the pin out.\n\nInstantly the fair maiden stood before him in all her surpassing\nbeauty as he had seen her at the first. 'Are you not my fair maiden\nwho promised to marry me?' exclaimed the king.\n\n'The very same, and no other,' replied the maiden.\n\n'Then who is this one?' said the king, and he turned to the\nstepmother's daughter beside him, and tore off her veil. Then he\nunderstood the deceit that had been played on him, and he sent for the\nstepmother, and ordered that she and her daughter should be punished\nwith death.\n\n\n\n[The next group most prolific in variety of incidents is that\nin which the stepmother represents the evil genius of the story;\nsometimes there is a daughter only, sometimes a daughter and a son,\nand sometimes, but less frequent, a son only. Allied to it is that in\nwhich the character devolves on two elder sisters, not specified to\nbe stepsisters, and the incidents in these two branches are closely\ninterwoven. I give the first place to Cinderella, because it has\nacquired a homely importance.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLA CENORIENTOLA. [35]\n\n\nThey say there was a merchant who had three daughters. When he went\nout into foreign countries to buy wares he told them he would bring\nthem rare presents whatever they might ask for. The eldest asked for\nprecious jewels, the second for rich shawls, but the youngest who\nwas always kept out of sight in the kitchen by the others, and made\nto do the dirty work of the house, asked only for a little bird.\n\n'So you want a little bird, do you! What is the use of a little bird\nto you!' said the sisters mocking her, and 'Papa will have something\nelse to think of than minding little birds on a long journey.'\n\n'But you will bring me a little bird, won't you, papa?' pleaded the\nlittle girl; 'and I can tell you that if you don't the boat you are\non will stand still, and will neither move backwards nor forwards.'\n\nThe merchant went away into a far country and bought precious wares,\nbut he forgot all about the little bird. It was only when he had\ngot on board a boat to go down a mighty river on his homeward way,\nand the captain found the boat would not move by any means, that he\nremembered what his daughter had said to him. Then while the captain\nwas wondering how it was the boat would not move, he went to him and\ntold him what he had done. But the captain said, 'That is easily set\nright. Here close by is a garden full of thousands of birds; you can\neasily creep in and carry off one. One will never be missed among so\nmany thousands.'\n\nThe merchant followed his directions and went into the garden where\nthere were so many thousand birds that he easily caught one. The\ncaptain gave him a cage, and he brought it safely home and gave it\nto his daughter.\n\nThat night the elder sisters said as usual, 'We are going to the ball;\nyou will stay at home and sweep up the place and mind the fire.'\n\nNow all the birds in the garden which the captain had pointed out to\nthe merchant were fairies; so when the others were gone to the ball and\nthe youngest daughter went into her room to her bird, she said to it:\n\n\n        Give me splendid raiment,\n        And I will give you my rags. [36]\n\n\nImmediately, the bird gave her the most beautiful suit of clothes,\nwith jewels and golden slippers, and a splendid carriage and prancing\nhorses. With these the maiden went to the ball which was at the\nking's palace. The moment the king saw her he fell in love with her,\nand would dance with no one else. The sisters were furious with the\nstranger because the king danced all night with her and not with them,\nbut they had no idea it was their sister.\n\nThe second night she did the same, only the bird gave her a yet more\nbeautiful dress, and the king did all he could to find out who she was,\nbut she would not tell him. Then he asked her name and she said,--\n\n'They call me Cenorientola.'\n\n'Cenorientola,' said the king; 'what a pretty name! I never heard\nit before.'\n\nHe had also told the servants that they must run after her carriage\nand see where it went; but though they ran as fast as the wind they\ncould not come near the pace of her horses.\n\nThe third night the sisters went to the ball and left her at home,\nand she staid at home with her little bird and said to it,--\n\n\n        Give me splendid raiment,\n        And I will give you my rags. [37]\n\n\nThen the bird gave her a more splendid suit still, and the king paid\nher as much attention as ever. But to the servants he had said,\n'If you don't follow fast enough tonight to see where she lives I\nwill have all your heads cut off.' So they used such extra diligence\nthat she in her hurry to get away dropped one of her golden slippers;\nthis the servants picked up and brought to the king.\n\nThe next day the king sent a servant into every house in the city till\nhe should find her whom the golden slipper fitted, but there was not\none; last of all he came to the merchant's house, and he tried it on\nthe two elder daughters and it would fit neither. Then he said,--\n\n'There must be some other maiden in this house;' but they only shrugged\ntheir shoulders. 'It is impossible; another maiden there must be,\nfor every maiden in the city we have seen and the slipper fits none,\ntherefore one there must be here.'\n\nThen they said,--\n\n'In truth we have a little sister who sits in the kitchen and does the\nwork. She is called Cenorientola, because she is always smutty. We are\nsure she never went to a ball, and it would only soil the beautiful\ngold slipper to let her put her smutty feet into it.'\n\n'It may be so,' replied the king's servant, 'but we must try,\nnevertheless.'\n\nSo they fetched her, and the king's servant found that the shoe fitted\nher; and they went and told the king all.\n\nThe moment the king heard them say Cenorientola he said,--'That is\nshe! It is the name she gave me.'\n\nSo he sent a carriage to fetch her in all haste. The bird meantime\nhad given her a more beautiful dress than any she had had before,\nand priceless jewels, so that when they came to fetch her she looked\nquite fit to be a queen. Then the king married her; and though her\nsisters had behaved so ill to her she gave them two fine estates,\nso that all were content.\n\n\n\n[The counterparts to the story are endless. In Grimm's 'Aschenputtel'\n(p. 93), the nominal German counterpart, there is a stepmother\nas well as two sisters, and the story turns upon the gifts each\ndaughter craves of the father, an episode which occurs in Roman\nversions with different titles. His 'Die drei M\u00e4nnlein im Walde'\n('Three Little Men in the Wood') is like it, and the other versions\ntoo, and the episode in it of the good daughter receiving the faculty\nof dropping a gold coin from her mouth at every word she utters,\nis like a Hungarian story, in which no stepmother figures, but the\nevil genius of the story (the Lady-in-Waiting) is plainly called\na witch. In this story it is a princess, from whose footsteps rise\ngold pieces, her tears are pearls, and her smiles rosebuds. In one\nof the Siddhi K\u00fcr Stories which I have translated as 'Sagas from the\nfar East' (p. 49) is a similar incident, and a Spanish equivalent in\nNote 3. A friend of mine met with a very similar legend in a convent\nat Quito, concerning a nun called 'the Rose of Quito,' out of whose\ngrave a rose-tree is said to have sprung and blossomed on the morrow\nof her burial. It seems, however, to have an independent origin, as\n'the Rose of Quito' died within the last 150 years. In the Tirolean\n'Klein-Else,' or 'Aschenpf\u00f6dl,' to which allusion has already been\nmade, and which answers to it in name, we have a connexion with the\nlast group (as in some of the succeeding Roman versions) in the sun,\nmoon, and star dresses.\n\nAmong the Tales of Italian Tirol we find it as Zendrarola, and with\na good deal of variation from any other form I have met. The story\nopens with a dying father as in the North Tirolean 'Klein-Else,' but\nit is only a rich man, not a warrior-baron, and he has three daughters\ninstead of one. He bids them choose what gifts he shall bestow on\nthem before he dies, and the eldest asks for a pair of earrings;\nthe second for a dress; and the youngest for his magic sword, which\ngives whatever the possessor wishes for. The story is singular in this,\nthat the elder sisters seem to have no spite. The father does not die;\nbut, notwithstanding his recovery, he has nothing more to do with the\nstory further than to give an unwilling consent that the youngest\ndaughter, though his favourite, shall go forth with her sword and\nroam the world till she finds a husband. She only takes service in\na large house in a big town, however; but there falls in love with a\nmelancholy youth, son of a count, who lives opposite. For the sake of\nbeing nearer him, she obtains the place of kitchen-maid in his palace,\nand thus acquires her title of Zendrarola in a very different way\nfrom her counterparts in other lands. One day she hears he is going\nto a ball, and she makes her wishing-sword give her a dress like\nthe sky; and the young Count, who has never admired anyone before,\nof course falls in love with her. When he comes back, he confides to\nhis lady mother what has occurred, and Zendrarola, now again dressed\nas a dirty drudge, interposes that the fair one he was extolling was\nnot prettier than herself. He silences her indignantly by giving her\na poke with the shovel, and when she meets him next night in some\nbeautiful attire, and he asks her where she comes from, she answers\n'dalla palettada' (from shovel-blow). The next day the same thing\nhappens, and he gives her a blow with the tongs, and when he asks\nher in the evening what her country is, she answers 'majettada'\n(tongs-blow); answering to Frustinaia and Stivalaia in the second\nRoman version of 'Maria di Legno.' He gives her a ring, which she\nsends up in his broth, as Klein-Else does in the pancake, and so he\nrecognises and marries her. In one or two of the Roman versions also,\nthe means of recognition is a ring in place of a slipper.\n\nI do not remember any Cinderella among the Russian Tales, though there\nare stepmother stories, which pair off with others of the Roman. For\nScotch versions I must refer the reader to Campbell's 'Highland Tales,'\ni. 226, and ii. 292.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nVACCARELLA. [38]\n\n\nThey say there was once a husband and a wife; but I don't mean that\nthey were husband and wife of each other. The husband had lost his\nwife, and the wife had lost her husband, and each had one little\ndaughter. The husband sent his daughter to the wife to be brought up\nalong with her own daughter, and as the girl came every morning to\nbe trained and instructed, the wife used to send a message back by\nher every evening, saying, 'Why doesn't your father marry me? then\nwe should all live together, and you would no longer have this weary\nwalk to take.'\n\nThe father, however, did not see it in the same light; but the teacher\n[39] continued sending the same message. In short, [40] at last she\ncarried her point, having previously given a solemn promise to him\nthat Maria, his little girl, should be always as tenderly treated as\nher own.\n\nNot many months elapsed, however, before she began to show herself a\ntrue stepmother. After treating Maria with every kind of harshness, she\nat last sent her out into the Campagna to tend the cow, so as to keep\nher out of sight of her father, and estrange him from her. Maria had\nto keep the cow's stall clean with fresh litter every day; sometimes\nshe had to take the cow out to grass, and watch that it only grazed\nover the right piece of land; at other times she had to go out and\ncut grass for the cow to eat. All this was work enough for one so\nyoung; but Maria was a kind-hearted girl, and grew fond of her cow,\nso that it became a pleasure to her to attend to it.\n\nWhen the cruel stepmother saw this she was annoyed to find her so\nlight-hearted over her work, and to vex her more gave her a great\nheap of hemp to spin. It was in vain that Maria reminded her she had\nnever been taught to spin; the only answer she got was, 'If you don't\nbring it home with you to-night all properly spun you will be finely\npunished;' and Maria knew to her cost what that meant.\n\nWhen Maria went out into the Campagna that day she was no longer\nlight-hearted; and as she littered down the stall she stroked the\ncow fondly, and said to her, as she had no one else to complain to,\n'Vaccarella! Vaccarella! what shall I do? I have got all this hemp\nto spin, and I never learnt spinning. Yet if I don't get through it\nsomehow I shall get sadly beaten to-night. Dear little cow, tell me\nwhat to do!'\n\nBut the cow was an enchanted cow, [41] and when she heard Maria cry\nshe turned round and said quickly and positively:--\n\n\n        Throw it on to the horns of me,\n        And go along, cut grass for me! [42]\n\n\nMaria did as she was told, went out and cut a good basketful of grass,\nand imagine her delight on coming back with it to find all the whole\nlot of hemp beautifully spun.\n\nThe surprise of the stepmother was still greater than hers, at\nfinding that she had got through her task so easily, for she had\ngiven her enough to have occupied an ordinary person a week. Next\nday, therefore, she determined to vex her with a more difficult task,\nand gave her a quantity of spun hemp [43] to weave into a piece of\nfine cloth. Maria's pleadings were as fruitless as before, and once\nmore she went to tell her tale of woe to her 'dear little cow.'\n\nVaccarella readily gave the same answer as before:--\n\n\n        Throw it on to the horns of me,\n        And go along, cut grass for me!\n\n\nOnce more, when Maria came back with her basket of grass, she found all\nher work done, to her great surprise and delight. But her stepmother's\nsurprise was quite of another order. That Maria should have woven the\ncloth, not only without instruction, but even without a loom, proved\nclearly enough she must have had some one to help her--a matter which\nroused the stepmother's jealousy in the highest degree, and wherein\nthis help consisted she determined to find out. Accordingly, next day\nshe gave her a shirt to make up, and then posted herself out of sight\nin a corner of the cow-house to see what happened. Thus she overheard\nMaria's complaint to her dear little cow, and Vaccarella's reply:--\n\n\n        Throw it on to the horns of me,\n        And go along, cut grass for me!\n\n\nShe thus also saw, what Maria did not see, that as soon as she had gone\nout the cow assumed the form of a woman, and sat down and stitched and\nstitched away till the shirt was made, and that in a surprisingly short\nspace of time. As soon as it was finished, and before Maria came in,\nthe woman became a cow again.\n\nThe cruel stepmother determined that Maria should be deprived of a\nfriend who enabled her to set all her hard treatment at defiance,\nand next morning told her that she was going to kill the cow. Maria\nwas broken-hearted at the announcement, but she knew it was useless\nto remonstrate; so she only used her greatest speed to reach her\n'dear little cow,' and warn her of what was going to happen in time\nto make her escape.\n\n'There is no need for me to escape,' replied Vaccarella; 'killing will\nnot hurt me. So dry your tears, and don't be distressed. Only, after\nthey have killed me, put your hand under my heart, and there you will\nfind a golden ball. This ball is yours, so take it out, and whenever\nyou are tired of your present kind of life, you have only to say to\nit on some fitting occasion--\"Golden ball, golden ball, dress me in\ngold and give me a lover,\" [44] and you shall see what shall happen.'\n\nVaccarella had no time to say more, for the stepmother arrived just\nthen with a man who slaughtered the cow at her order.\n\nUnder Vaccarella's heart Maria found the promised golden ball,\nwhich she hid away carefully against some fitting occasion for using\nit arose.\n\nNot long after there was a novena [45] of a great festival, during\nwhich Maria's stepmother, with all her disposition to overwork her,\ndurst not keep her from church, lest the neighbours should cry\n'Shame!' on her.\n\nMaria accordingly went to church with all the rest of the people,\nand when she had made her way through the crowd to a little distance\nfrom her stepmother, she took her golden ball out of her pocket and\nwhispered to it--'Golden ball, golden ball, dress me in gold and give\nme a lover.'\n\nInstantly the golden ball burst gently open and enveloped her,\nand she came out of it all radiant with beautiful clothing, like a\nprincess. Everybody made way for her in her astonishing brightness.\n\nThe eyes of the king's son were turned upon her, no less than the eyes\nof all the people; and the prayers were no sooner over than he sent\nsome of his attendants to call her and bring her to him. Before they\ncould reach her, however, Maria had restored her beautiful raiment\nto the golden ball, and, in the sordid attire in which her stepmother\ndressed her, she could easily pass through the crowd unperceived.\n\nAt home, her stepmother could not forbear talking, like everyone else\nin the town, about the maiden in glittering raiment who had appeared in\nthe midst of the church; but, of course, without the remotest suspicion\nthat it was Maria herself. But Maria sat still and said nothing.\n\nSo it happened each day of the Novena; for, though Maria was not at\nall displeased with the appearance and fame of the husband whom her\n'dear little cow' seemed to have appointed for her, she did not wish\nto be too easy a prize, and thought it but right to make him take\na little trouble to win her. Thus she every day restored all her\nbright clothing to the golden ball before the prince's men could\novertake her. Only on the last day of the Novena, when the prince,\nfearful lest it might also be the last on which he would have an\nopportunity of seeing her, had told them to use extra diligence,\nthey were so near overtaking her that, in the hurry of the moment,\nshe dropped a slipper. [46] This the prince's men eagerly seized,\nfeeling no compunction in wresting it from the mean-looking wench\n(so Maria now looked) who disputed possession of it with them, not\nin the least imagining that she could be the radiant being of whom\nthey were in search.\n\nThe Novena over, Maria once more returned to her ceaseless toil;\nbut the stepmother's hatred had grown so great that she determined\nto rid herself of her altogether and in the most cruel way.\n\nDown in the cellar there stood a large barrel, [47] which had grown\ndirty and mouldy from neglect, and wanted scalding out. 'Get into\nthe barrel, Maria girl,' she bid her next morning for her task,\n'and scrape it and rub it well before we scald it.'\n\nMaria did as she was bid, and the stepmother went away to boil\nthe water.\n\nMeantime, the prince's men had taken Maria's slipper to him, and he,\ndelighted to have any token of his fair one, appointed an officer to\ngo into every house, and proclaim that the maiden whom the slipper\nmight fit should be his bride. The officer went round from house to\nhouse, trying the slipper on everybody's foot. But it fitted no one,\nfor it was under a spell.\n\nBut the stepmother's own daughter [48] had gone down to the cellar\nto help Maria, unbeknown to her mother; and it so happened that,\njust as she was inside the barrel and Maria outside, the king's\nofficer happened to come by that way. He opened the door, [49] and,\nseeing a damsel standing within, tried on the sandal without waiting\nto ask leave. As the sandal fitted Maria to perfection, the officer\nwas all impatience to carry her off to the prince, and placed her in\nthe carriage which was waiting outside, and drove off with her before\nanyone had even observed his entrance.\n\nScarcely had all this passed than the stepmother came back, with her\nservants, each carrying a can of boiling water. They placed themselves\nin a ring round the barrel, and each emptied her charge into it. As\nit was the stepmother's daughter who was inside at the time, instead\nof Maria, it was she who got scalded to death in her place.\n\nBy-and-by, when the house was quiet, the bad stepmother went to the\nbarrel, intending to take out the body of Maria and hide it. What was\nher dismay when she found, instead of Maria's body, that of her own\ndaughter! As soon as her distress and grief subsided sufficiently to\nenable her to consider what she had to do, the idea suggested itself\nto conceal the murder by putting the blame of it on some one else. For\nthis purpose she took the body of her daughter, and, dressing it in\ndry clothes, seated it on the top of the stairs against her husband's\nreturn. [50]\n\nPresently, home he came with his ass-load of wood, and called to her\ndaughter to come and help him unload it, as usual. But the daughter\ncontinued sitting on the top of the stairs, and moved not. Again and\nagain he called, louder and louder, but still she moved not; till at\nlast, irritated beyond all endurance, he hurled one of his logs of wood\nat her, which brought the badly-balanced corpse rolling and tumbling\nall the way down the stairs, just as the stepmother had designed.\n\nThe husband, however, was far from being deceived by the device. He\ncould see the body presented no appearance of dying from a recent fall.\n\n'Where's Maria?' he asked, as soon as he got up into the room.\n\n'Nobody knows; she has disappeared!' replied the stepmother; nor was\nhe slow to convince himself she was nowhere in the house.\n\n'This is no place for me to stay in,' said the husband to himself. 'One\nchild driven away, and one murdered; who can say what may happen next?'\n\nNext morning, therefore, he called to him the little daughter born\nto him since his marriage with Maria's stepmother, and went away with\nher for good and all. So that bad woman was deprived, as she deserved,\nof her husband and all her children in one day.\n\nJust as the father and his daughter were starting to go away, Maria\ndrove by in a gilded coach with the prince her husband; so he had the\nsatisfaction, and her stepmother the vexation, of seeing her triumph.\n\n\n\n[The introduction of the wonder-working cow in this second version of\nthe story of Cinderella cannot fail to suggest the idea that it may\nfind its prototype in Sabala, the heavenly cow of the Ramayana. [51]\n\nI have another Stepmother story, the place of which is here, but it\nis too long to give in its entirety. It begins like the last, and the\nnext, and many others, with a widower, the teacher of whose children,\na boy and girl, insists on marrying him. Soon after, of course,\nshe turns the children out of doors; the boy is made the slave of\na witch, and comes well at last out of many adventures; it is one\nof the nearest approaches to a heroic story that I have met with in\nRome. There are details in it, however, like Filagranata and others,\nnot actually of the Stepmother group. The girl gets taken into a\nBrigand's cave, and goes through adventures which befall the youngest\nof three sisters (without a stepmother) in the Italian-Tirolese tale\nof 'Le tre Sorelle,' and that, again, is precisely like another Roman\nstory I have, in many respects different from the present one, called\n'The Three Windows.' One of the adventures in the present story is,\nthat the witch, instead of killing the girl, gives her the appearance\nof death, and she is shut up in a box instead of being regularly\nburied, and a prince, as he goes by hunting, finds her, and the means\nof restoring her, and marries her. This is a very common incident in\nanother group, and occurs in the 'Siddhi K\u00fcr' story which I have given\nas 'The Prayer making suddenly Rich,' in 'Sagas from the Far East;' and\nin the third version of 'Maria de Legno,' infra, where also the girl is\nnot even seemingly dead. I cannot forbear subjoining a quaint version\nof the story of Joseph, which was told me, embodying the same incident,\nthough the story of Joseph has usually been identified with the group\nin which a younger brother is the hero; by Dr. Dasent, among others,\nwho gives several examples, under the name of 'Boots.' In the Roman\nseries this group is represented by 'Scioccolone.']\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGIUSEPPE L'EBREO.\n\n\n'Do you know the story of Giuseppe l'Ebreo?'\n\n'Not by that name. Tell it me, and I'll tell you if I've heard\nit before.'\n\n'There was once a moglie e marito who had seven sons.'\n\n'Oh, do you mean the Machabees?'\n\n'No. I don't think they were called Machabees--I don't know. But\nthe youngest of the seven was called Joseph, and he was his father's\nBenjamin, and that made the others jealous of him. They used to go\nout in the Campagna together to feed the flocks, for in those days\nall were shepherds; and when the others had Joseph out there all\nalone they said, \"Let us kill him;\" and they were going to kill him;\nbut one said, \"No, we must not kill him: we will put him down a well;\"\nand so they did.\n\n'The next day it happened that a great king went by hunting, and as\nhis dogs passed the well where Joseph was they scented human blood\nand made a great barking, and the king said, \"See what the dogs have\nfound.\" So they took the stone from the mouth of the well and let\na cord down, and behold a beautiful boy came up--for Joseph was a\nbeautiful boy--and he pleased the king, and he took him home and kept\nhim as a precious jewel, he was so fair. So handsome was he, that\nthe Queen fell in love with him; and when he wouldn't listen to her\nshe accused him of having insulted her, and had him put into prison.\n\n'After that the King had a strange dream: he saw three lean cows and\nthree fat cows; and he saw the three lean cows eat up the three fat\ncows; and he sent for all the theologians in the country, and none\nof them could tell what the dream meant; but Joseph said, \"I can tell\nwhat the dream means.\"... The rest as in the Bible.'\n\n\n\n[Dr. Dasent gives one Norse story of a stepmother, with a stepson and\ndaughter, which begins like the one of which I have given an abstract,\nbut runs off into quite different incidents.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING WHO GOES OUT TO DINNER. [52]\n\n\nThey say there was a well-to-do peasant whose wife died leaving\nhim two children--a boy and a girl. Both were beautiful children,\nbut the girl was of the most inconceivable beauty.\n\nAs both were still young, and the father did not know how to supply\na mother's place to them, he sent them to a woman, who was to teach\nthem and train them, and do all that a mother would have done for\nthem. So to her they went every day. The woman, however, was bent on\nmarrying their father, and used to send a message every day to ask\nwhy he did not marry her. The father sent in answer that he did not\nwant to marry; but the woman continued to repeat the same message so\nfrequently that, wearied by her importunity, he sent an answer to the\neffect that when a pair of strong woollen stockings, which he also\ngave the children to take to her, were rotted away he would marry her,\nand not before. The woman took the pair of stockings and hung them up\nin a loft and damped them with water twice a day till they were soon\nquite rotted; then she showed them to the children, and told them\nto tell their father what they had seen. When the children went home\nthey said, 'Papa! we saw your pair of stockings to-day; they are all\nrotted away.' But the father said, 'Nonsense! Those thick stockings\ncould not have rotted in this time; there must be some unfair play.'\n\nThe next morning he gave them a large pitcher of water, and told them\nto take it to their teacher, saying that when all the water had dried\nup he would marry her, and not before. The teacher took the children up\nevery day to see how rapidly the water diminished in the jug; but the\nfact was she used to go first and pour out a little every day. [53]\nAt last she showed them the pitcher empty, and bid them tell their\nfather that they had seen it so. 'Impossible!' said their father;\nbut when they assured him they had seen the water in it gradually\ndiminish day by day, he saw there was no way of disputing the fact,\nand that he was bound by the condition he himself had fixed.\n\nAccordingly he married the teacher. No sooner, however, was she in\npossession of the house than she told the father she would not have\nthe children about the place; they were not her children, and she could\nnot bear the sight of them. The father expostulated, saying he had no\nplace to send them to, but the stepmother continued so persistently in\nher representations that, for the sake of peace, he ceased to oppose\nher, and she took upon herself the task of disposing of them.\n\nOne day, therefore, she made them a large cake, [54] and putting it\nin a basket with a bottle of wine, she took them for a walk outside\nthe gates. When they had gone a long, long way, she proposed that they\nshould sit down and lunch off their cake and wine. The children were\nnothing loth; but, while they were eating, the stepmother slipped\naway unperceived, and left them alone, thinking that they would be\nlost. But the fact was the boy had overheard their father and mother\ntalking about getting rid of them, and he had provided himself with\na paper parcel [55] of ashes, and had strewn them all along the road\nthey had come, unperceived by his stepmother, and so now by this\ntrack they found their way home again.\n\nThe stepmother was furious at seeing them come back, but she said\nnothing in order not to rouse their suspicions. A few days after,\nhowever, she made another cake and proposed to take them another\nwalk. The children accompanied her willingly; but the little boy\nprovided himself with a parcel of millet, and strewed the grain on\nthe ground as they walked along. They were in no haste, therefore, to\nfinish their refection. But, alas! when they came to trace the track\nby which they were to return, there was no means of finding it, for\nthe birds had come meanwhile and eaten up all the grain. The little\ngirl was appalled when she saw they were lost, and sat down to cry;\nbut the little boy said, 'Never mind; our stepmother was very cross\nand unkind to us; perhaps we shall meet with some one who will behave\nbetter to us. Come, let us look for shelter before night comes on.' The\nlittle girl took courage at her brother's words, and, joining hands,\nthey walked on together.\n\nBefore night they came to a little cottage, the only one in sight;\nso they knocked at the door. 'Who's there?' said a voice within, and\nwhen they answered 'Friends,' an old man opened the door. 'Will you\nplease take us in and give us shelter for the night, for our stepmother\nhas turned us out of our home?' said the little boy. 'Come in, and\nwelcome,' answered the old man, 'and you shall be my children.' So\nthey went in and lived with him as his children.\n\nWhen they had been living there some time, it happened that one\nday when the old man and her brother were both out, the king came\nby hunting, and he came to the hut and asked for some water to\ndrink. The extraordinary beauty of the maiden astonished the king,\nand he asked her whence she was, and so learnt all her story. When he\nwent home he told his mother, saying, 'When I was out to-day I saw\nthe most beautiful maiden that ever was created. You must come and\nsee her.' The queen-mother did not like going to the poor hut, but\nthe prince urged her so much that at last she consented to accompany\nhim. The king drove out beforehand to the cottage and gave notice that\nhe would like to dine there, and, giving the maiden plenty of money,\ntold her to prepare the best dinner that ever she could for him and\nthe queen-mother. The maiden tidied up the cottage so neatly, and\nprepared the dinner so well, and did the honours of it so gracefully,\nthat the queen-mother was won to admire her as much as her son had\nbeen, and when the king told her of his intention to make the girl\nhis wife she was well pleased. So Albina (such was her name) was\nmarried to the king, and her brother was made viceroy.\n\nIn the meantime, the stepmother had begun to wonder what had become of\nthe children. But she was a witch, and had a divining rod; [56] this\nrod she struck, and asked it where the children were. The answer came,\n'The girl is married to the king, and the lad is made viceroy.'\n\nWhen she heard this she went to her husband and said, 'Do you know a\nsort of remorse has taken me that we let those poor children go we\nknow not whither. I am resolved to put on a pilgrim's dress and go\nand seek them that I may bring them home to us again.' The father was\nvery glad to hear her speak thus, and gave his consent to her taking\nthe journey. The next day, therefore, she put on a pilgrim's dress\nand went forth.\n\nOn, on, on she went till she came to the city where Albina was\nmarried to the king. Here she took up her stand opposite the palace\nwindows, and with her divining rod she called up a golden hen with\ngolden chickens, [57] and made them strut about under the palace\nwindow. When Queen Albina looked out and saw the wonderful brood,\nshe sent down at once to call the pilgrim-woman to her and offered\nto buy them of her. 'My hen and chickens I neither sell nor pledge,'\nanswered the pretended pilgrim; 'I only part with them at one price.'\n\n'And what is the price, good pilgrim, say?' answered the queen.\n\n'My price is that the queen herself take me down to the palace garden\nand show me the whale which I know there is in the fish-pond.' [58]\n\n'That is a condition easily accepted,' answered Albina. 'I will take\nyou there at once, good woman.'\n\nThe queen and the pretended pilgrim then went down together to\nthe pond. The pretended pilgrim no sooner came in sight of the\nwhale than she touched the water with her rod and bade the whale\nswallow the queen. The whale obeyed the stroke of the wand imparted\nthrough the water, and the stepmother went up and threw herself on\nthe queen's bed. When she had well wrapped herself in the coverlets\nso as to be hidden, she called the maids to her and bid them tell\nthe king that the queen was sick. The king immediately came in all\nhaste to assure himself of the state of the queen. 'I am ill indeed,\nvery ill!' cried the pretended queen, groaning between whiles; 'and\nthere is no hope for me, for there is only one remedy for my malady,\nand that I cannot take.'\n\n'Tell me the one remedy at least,' said the king.\n\n'The one only remedy for me is the blood of the viceroy, and that I\ncould not take.'\n\n'It is a dreadful remedy indeed,' said the king; 'but if it is the\nonly thing to save your life, I must make you take it.'\n\n'Oh, no! I could not take it!' exclaimed the pretended queen, for\nthe sake of appearing genuine.\n\nBut the king, bent on saving her life at any price, sent and had the\nviceroy taken possession of and secured, ready to be slain, [59] in\none of the lower chambers of the palace. The windows of this chamber\nlooked out upon the fish-pond.\n\nThe viceroy looked out of the window on to the fishpond, and\nimmediately there came a voice up to him, speaking out of the whale,\nand saying, 'Save me, my brother, for here am I imprisoned in the\nwhale, and behold two children are born to me.'\n\nBut her brother could only answer, 'I can give help to none, for I\nalso am in peril of death, being bound and shut up ready to be slain!'\n\nThen a voice of lamentation came up from within the whale saying,\n'Woe is me that my brother is to be slain, and I and my children are\nshut up in this horrible place! Woe is me!'\n\nPresently, the gardener hearing these lamentations, went to the king,\nsaying, 'O, king! come down thyself and hear the voice of one that\nwaileth, and the voice cometh as from within the whale.'\n\nThe king went down, and at once recognised the voice of the queen;\nthen he commanded that the whale should be ripped open; no sooner\nwas this done than the queen and her two children were brought to\nlight. The king embraced them all, and said, 'Who then is she that is\nin the queen's bed?' and he commanded that she should be brought before\nhim. When the queen had seen her she said, 'This is my stepmother;'\nand when the pilgrim's weeds, which she had taken off, were also found,\nand it was shown that it was she who had worked all this mischief,\nthe king pronounced that she was a witch, and she was put to death,\nand the viceroy was set at liberty.\n\n\n\n[I now come to three stories more strictly of the Cinderella type\nthan the two last, but no stepmother appears in them.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE POT OF MARJORAM. [60]\n\n\nThey say there was once a father who was a rich, very rich, merchant,\nand the daughters had been used all their lives to have every thing\nthat money could buy them, so that one day when the father was going to\na distant mart where he expected to find the choicest wares, and asked\nthem what he should bring home, they scarcely knew what to ask. But\nwhen he told them he expected to find shawls of such brilliant hues\nas they had never seen, with gold threads interwoven, the eldest\ninstantly begged him to bring her one of these; and when he said he\nexpected to find coverlets of bird plumage vieing with the rainbow\nin brilliancy, the second entreated him to bring her one of these.\n\nThe third daughter, however, who was distinguished by stay-at-home\nhabits, and by her distaste for vanity of every kind, would not have\nany of these gay ornaments, though he not only offered her shawls and\ncoverlets such as her sisters revelled in the idea of possessing, but\nprecious jewelry, sparkling rubies, and rarest pearls. She would have\nnone of these, but asked him only to bring her a pot of marjoram,\nwhich she wanted for household uses as none was to be got in the\ncountry where they were living.\n\nThe father soon after set out on his travels, and having reached his\ndestination did not fail, while laying in his rare and precious stock,\nto select the choicest specimens to bestow on his two eldest daughters.\n\nBut the homely pot of marjoram quite went out of his head, and he\nreturned homewards without having so much as thought of it.\n\nHe was nearly home when he was accosted on the way by a strange-looking\nman one evening, who asked him if he would not buy of him a pot\nof marjoram.\n\n'A pot of marjoram!' The words brought back his youngest daughter's\nrequest whom he would not have disappointed for all the world.\n\n'A pot of marjoram, say you? Yes, it's just what I want. Give it\nhere, and there's something extra because it is just what I want;'\nand throwing him money to three or four times the ordinary value\nof the article, he called to an attendant to stow the pot on to the\npack-saddle of one of the mules.\n\nBut the stranger held back the pot and laughed in his face.\n\n'I had thought you were a trader,' he said, 'and knew enough of the\nrules of trade to let a man fix his own price on his own wares.'\n\nThe merchant laughed in his turn at what seemed to him an insolent\ncomparison.\n\n'When a trader goes thousands of miles, through a thousand perils\nto bring home precious wares from afar which those at home scarcely\nknow the use of, true, then, he alone can fix the price. But a pot\nof marjoram, every one knows the price of that.'\n\n'Perhaps not,' replied the stranger, binding his cloak about him with\nthe pot tightly held under his arm. 'At all events it is clear you\ndon't;' and he took a step forward as if he considered the negotiation\nat an end.\n\nThe merchant was vexed; he would not on any account miss taking back\na pot of marjoram, and he knew he was now so near home that no other\nchance would there be of procuring one. Swallowing down his annoyance\nas well as he could, therefore, he led his horse nearer to the strange\nman and said,--\n\n'You make me quite curious to hear your price named, friend, as till\nthis moment I had not thought there could be two ideas on the subject.'\n\n'My price is three hundred thousand scudi,' replied the strange man,\nwho was really a magician; 'and if you knew its powers you would know,\ntoo, it is cheap at that.'\n\nAnd again he made as if he would have gone on his way, indifferent\nwhether the bargain were concluded or not.\n\nThe merchant was quite puzzled how to act. The pot of marjoram he must\nhave, and his knowledge of the art of bargaining convinced him that the\nman's manner meant he would not rebate an iota of his price. Whatever\nawkwardness he felt in suddenly giving three hundred thousand scudi\nfor an article he had just appraised at a paul it was even more\napparent to him that any attempt at haggling would only have added to\nthe absurdity of the situation by its futility. Therefore, assuming a\nmagnificent air, as if the vast price were after all no matter to him,\nhe called to his steward to count out the sum demanded and rode on.\n\nArrived at home, his showy presents were received with raptures by his\ntwo eldest daughters, while the youngest received her modest-seeming\nshare of his generosity with an expression of surprise and admiration,\nwhich gave the good merchant a secret satisfaction in imagining that\nshe was not altogether ignorant of its immense value.\n\nAs days went by, however, everything fell back into the usual\nroutine. The elder sisters continued the same round of gaiety in\nwhich they had ever been immersed, the younger remained as of old,\nquietly absorbed in her household duties; but if she had any pastime\nit was that of diligently cultivating her pot of marjoram. By degrees,\nhowever, through the steward's gossip with the servants, it came round\nto the knowledge of the sisters that, though their younger sister\nhad seemed to frame so humble a request, its satisfaction had cost\ntheir father's treasury a fabulous sum. The discovery excited their\nutmost indignation, and their jealousy being roused, they determined\nto inflict a condign and appropriate punishment for what they deemed\nher presumption, by destroying the illstarred pot of marjoram.\n\nTo get at it, however, was no easy matter, as its guardian seldom\nleft the house, and was always watching over it with jealous care. At\nlast they resolved, by way of pretext for securing her absence, to\nrepresent to their father that it was not good for a young girl to\nremain so shut up; that whether she had a taste for it or not, she\nought to see the world; and urged their arguments so efficaciously\nthat he quite admitted their cogency, and one evening, calling his\nyoungest daughter to him, imperatively required that she should\naccompany him to an evening engagement.\n\nThe poor child dared not disobey her father, but parted from her pot of\nmarjoram with a heavy heart, as if some foreboding of evil possessed\nher. No sooner had she left the house than the sisters went up into\nher room, and taking the pot of marjoram, flung it out of the window,\nso that it all lay broken and shattered on the highroad, where it\nwas soon trampled under foot and every vestige of it dispersed.\n\nWhen she came in and saw what was done her grief was unbounded,\nand no sooner was the house sunk in slumber than, determining to\nlive no longer under the same roof with those who had treated her so\nunfeelingly, she set out to wander forth absorbed in sorrow, and not\ncaring whither she went.\n\nOn, on, on she went, taking no heed of the way, all through the night,\nand when the morning dawned she found herself in the midst of a vast\nplain, at a place where many roads met. As she hesitated for a moment\nwhich she should take, there suddenly appeared before her a fairy,\n[61] though the last time she looked up she had not seen a speck\nanywhere between herself and the horizon.\n\n'Where are you going so early, my pretty maiden, and why weep\nyou?' said the fairy, in a soothing voice that seemed made to charm\nan answer out of the most reluctant.\n\nNevertheless, it was no easy question to answer, for the maiden\nhad no sort of idea whither she was going; therefore she took the\nsecond question first and poured out the whole tale of her sisters'\nharshness and her late terrible disappointment.\n\n'That is not so very bad after all,' replied the fairy, when she\nhad finished her tale. 'I see you have been trying to be a sensible\ngirl, but you must be brave as well as sensible. Men say of us women,\n\"Women always look at the dark side of things;\" [62] there is always\na bright side which you must try to look out for, even when, as in\nthis instance, you couldn't possibly see it; for all the evil that\nbefalls us does not work evil in the end. [63] Now it happens that\nthere is a particularly bright side to this case of yours, and the\nevil that was done you will bring you no ultimate harm. But you must\nexercise fortitude and stedfastness in what you will have to do. For\nthis I will give you a man's clothing, as it would not be seemly for\na young girl like you to be going about the world alone, and it will\nsave you from many dangers.'\n\nSo saying, though she had no bundle of any sort about her, she produced\na complete suit of male attire, travelling cloak and all, and in the\ngirdle were bound weapons, and many articles of which the maiden did\nnot even know the use or the name, but the fairy assured her she would\nwant them all by and by. Then, having pointed out which was the road\nshe should take, she again bid her be of good heart, and disappeared\nalmost before the maiden had time to utter her heartfelt thanks.\n\nThe fairy had no sooner vanished than the whole face of the country\nwore a different aspect; instead of being surrounded by a vast plain,\nmighty mountains rose on the right hand and on the left, while before\nher, straight along her path, was a dense forest. The maiden's heart\nmisgave her at the sight, but she remembered the fairy's advice and\nwalked steadily along. Notwithstanding her conversation had not seemed\nto last many minutes too, the sun was already high in the heavens,\nand its rays beat so fiercely upon her that she was glad even of the\ngloomy forest's shade. Arrived at the first trees she was pleased\nto hear the trickling of a little brook over the stones, and to find\nthat the good fairy had not failed to give her a supply of provisions\nof which she now gladly availed herself.\n\nAs the afternoon grew cooler she rose and walked on till nightfall\nwithout further adventure, and then disposed herself to rest for\nthe night, climbing first into the spreading boughs of a large tree,\nthat she might be out of the way of any wild beasts which the forest\nmight harbour.\n\nIn the middle of the night her sleep was disturbed by a horrible\ngrowling; and what was her surprise when she fully woke to find that\nthough it proceeded from a common he-, and she-bear [64] stretched\nout under the very tree she had chosen for her resting-place, she\ncould understand all the meaning it contained just as if they had\nspoken in words; and she recognised the new power as another gift of\nthe good fairy.\n\n'Where have you been all this long time?' growled the she-bear; 'it\nis quite abominable what a long time you stay away now continually;\nI have been hunting through the whole forest for you.'\n\n'That was quite waste of trouble,' replied the he-bear testily,\n'for I have been a long way from the forest.'\n\n'Where were you, then?' growled the she-bear again, with a tone that\nshowed she was determined to know all about it.\n\n'If you must know, I went twenty miles along the side of the river,\nthen over the back of the rocky mountains, and then skirting round the\nforest till I came to the kingdom of Persia. And out of the kingdom\nof Persia there went up a great wail, for last night, from his high\ntower, the king of Persia fell out of window and broke all his bones,\nmoreover his flesh is all cut with the glass, which has entered into\nhis wounds. Therefore the land of Persia bewails her king.'\n\n'Then let them get another king,' growled the she-bear.\n\n'That is not so easy,' rejoined the he-bear. 'For over all the face of\nthe earth was no king so comely in person as the king of Persia. But\nthat is not the worst, for the matter concerns us more nearly than\nyou have any idea of.'\n\n'How can it concern us?' retorted the she-bear.\n\n'It concerns us so much that if anyone only knew of us we should\nboth be killed. For the only remedy for his wounds is that we should\nboth be killed, the fat of our bodies be melted together, an ointment\nmade of it with honey and wax, and be smeared over the king's body,\nand then bathe him in warm baths, doing this alternately for the\nspace of three days he will be made well again. And now he has sent\na proclamation into all lands inviting any physician to come to heal\nhim by his art, and if any of them by their books and their divination\nshould discover this we both shall certainly be put to death.'\n\n'Nonsense! do come and go to sleep,' replied the she-bear testily;\n'how should anyone find us out in the midst of this forest?'\n\n'It's not very likely certainly,' growled the he-bear.\n\nAnd in consequence of this happy feeling of security both brutes were\nsoon fast asleep.\n\nHow gladly the maiden listened to their snoring, when she found she\ncould understand it just as well as their growling.\n\n'I'm sound asleep,' snored the she-bear.\n\n'I'm so tired I don't want ever to wake again,' snored her mate.\n\n'Neither shall you,' said the maiden as she noiselessly let herself\ndown from the tree.\n\n'Only think of that old king of Persia wanting our fat; long may he\nwish for it!' snored the she-bear.\n\n'Now it would be a fine thing to give back all his strength and his\nbeauty to the king of Persia, but the price of one's life is too much\nfor the honour,' snored the he-bear.\n\n'Nevertheless, you shall have that honour,' whispered the maiden,\nas she drew two sharp two-edged knives with which her girdle was\nfurnished, and, taking her stand firmly, plunged one with each hand\ndeep into the throat of each beast. A mingled stream of blood gushed\nforth, and the two huge carcases rolled over without so much as a\ngrunt, so neatly had the execution been performed.\n\nBy the first morning's light she once more called all her courage to\nher assistance, and cut up the carcasses, extracting the fat. Then\nshe lit a fire and melted it down together, nor was she without\nthe requisite wax and honey, for the good fairy had provided her\nwith enough of each. The ointment made, she set out to follow the\nline of travel the bear had indicated, and not without much toil and\nweariness at last found herself in the kingdom of Persia. Strong in\nbelief in the efficacy of her remedy, she presented herself at once\nat the palace gate and demanded admission on the score of her ability\nto effect the desired cure of the ailing king.\n\n'Though I may not have the high-sounding fame of which I daresay many\ncan boast who have come at the summons of your king, yet so certain\nam I of the powers of my treatment that I put my life in your hands,\nand give you leave to torture me to death if I succeed not.'\n\n'Fear not, fair sir,' replied the chamberlain; 'no difficulty will\nbe made in admitting you, for you alone have applied to heal the\nking. Every other mediciner throughout the whole world, on reading\nthe description of the king's ailments given in the proclamation,\nhas pronounced his health past recovery, and not one will even make\nthe attempt.'\n\nPale, emaciated, and agonised as he was, the maiden at once recognised\non her admission to the presence of the king the justice of the bear's\naccount of his personal attractions, and now more earnestly than ever\ndesired her success.\n\nThe king very willingly submitted to her medicaments, and at the end\nof three days was, as the bear had predicted, quite sound in limb and\nrestored to all his beauty of person. If his personal attractions had\nbeen an object of admiration to the maiden, those of his supposed\nphysician had not been lost on the king, and when she came on the\nfourth day to take her leave of him, he told her at once he could\nnot think of parting with her; she must remain attached to his court,\nand be always his physician in attendance. The flush of joy which she\ncould not conceal at the proposal sufficed to convince the king of\nthe justice of certain suspicions he had already entertained, that\nhis supposed physician was no physician, but a maiden worthy to be\nhis queen.\n\nFor the moment he said nothing further, but only assigned to the\nstranger apartments in the palace, and a suite of his own, and a\nyearly stipend on the most liberal scale. As days went by, being\ncontinually in each other's presence, with that familiarity which their\nnew relations allowed, each had the opportunity of growing more and\nmore fond of the other. At last the king called his chamberlain to\nhim one day and told him it was his desire that the state physician\nshould appear before him dressed in queenly robes, and attended by\na train of ladies of the court, and damsels and pages of honour.\n\nThe chamberlain fancied that the life-peril through which the prince\nhad so lately passed had injured his brain, and only undertook the\ncommission with a visible reluctance. Nevertheless, as he durst not\ndisobey any command of his sovereign, how strange soever, all was\ndone as he had directed; though what puzzled the chamberlain the\nmore was that the physician seemed as nearly demented as the king,\nfor, instead of testifying any reluctance in submitting to such a\ntravesty, his countenance had betrayed the most unmistakable joy at\nhearing the king's pleasure.\n\nThe king had further given orders for the attendance of all the great\nofficers of state and all the nobles of the land, as well as his\nguards of various degrees, all in brilliant gala dress. Before going\ninto the state hall to receive their homage, however, he entered alone\ninto his private cabinet, whither he commanded the attendance of his\nphysician. Both meeting thus, each habited to the greatest advantage\nin their own appropriate dress, each was more than ever smitten with\nthe attractions of the other. The king was not very long in winning\nfrom the maiden the confession that the robes she now wore were those\nof her sex, or that she shared his own desire that they should be\nunited by that tie which would bind them together inseparably for\never. No sooner had he thus obtained her consent than he led her into\nthe midst of the assembled court and required the homage of all his\npeople to her as their queen.\n\nAs for the wicked sisters, his first act was to send for them and\nhave them burnt to death.\n\n\n\n['How well I remember,' added the narrator, 'the way my mother used\nalways to end that story when she told it to me.'\n\n'And how was that?' asked I eagerly, not at all sorry to come across\nsome local addition at last.\n\n'But it has nothing to do with the tale, really,' she replied, as\ndeeming it too unimportant to trouble me with.\n\n'Never mind, I should like to hear it,' said I.\n\n'Well then, it used to run thus: \"Never was such a banquet made in all\nthe world as for the nuptials of this king of Persia. The confetti were\nas big as eggs; and, do you know, I had five of them given to me.\"'\n\n'O mamma,' I used to say then, 'why didn't you keep them for me? what\nsplendid confetti they must have been!'\n\n'Stop, and you shall hear what I did with them,' she would reply.\n\n\n      Uno lo dava al gallo        One I gave to the cock\n      Che mi portava a cavallo,   Who carried me on his back, [65]\n      Una a la gallina            And one to the hen\n      Che m' insegn\u00f2 la via.      Who showed me the way,\n      Uno al porco                And one to the pig\n      Che m' insegn\u00f2 la porta.    Who pointed out the door;\n      Uno ne mangiai,             One I ate myself,\n      E uno ne misse l\u00e0,          And one I put by there,\n      Che ancora ci sar\u00e0.         Where no doubt it still remains.\n\n\nAnd she used to point as she spoke at an old glass cabinet, where I\nwould go and rummage, always expecting to find the sweetmeat, till\none day, getting convinced it had no existence, I got very angry,\nand threw a big key at one of the panes and broke it, and she never\nwould tell me that story any more.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE POT OF RUE. [66]\n\n\nThey say there was once a rich merchant who had three daughters. Two of\nthem were very gay and fond of dancing and theatres, but the youngest\nwas very stay-at-home and scarcely ever went beyond the garden.\n\nOne day when the father was going abroad to buy merchandise, he asked\nhis three daughters what he should bring them home. The two eldest\nasked for all manner of dresses and ornaments, but the youngest asked\nonly for a pot of rue.\n\n'That's a funny fancy,' said the father, 'but an easy one to satisfy\nat all events; so be sure you shall have it.'\n\n'Not so easy, perhaps, as you think,' replied the maiden; 'only now\nyou have promised it, mind you bring it, as you will find you will\nnot be able to get home unless you bring it with you.'\n\nThe father did not pay much heed to her words, but went to a far\ncountry, bought his merchandise, taking care to include the fine\nclothes and jewels for his two eldest daughters, and, forgetting\nabout the pot of rue, set out to come home.\n\nThey were scarcely a day's journey out at sea when the ship stood\nquite still, nor was the captain able by any means to govern it,\nfor neither sail nor oar would move it an inch.\n\n'Some one on board has an unfulfilled promise on him,' declared the\ncaptain; and he called upon whoever it was to come forward and own\nit, that he might be thrown overboard, and that the lives of all the\npassengers and crew should not be put in jeopardy by his fault.\n\nThen the merchant came forward and said it was true he had forgotten\nto bring with him something he had promised to his little daughter,\nbut that it was so slight a matter he did not think it could be that\nwhich was stopping the ship.\n\nAs no one else had anything of the sort to accuse themselves of,\nthe captain judged that it was indeed the merchant's fault that\nhad stopped the ship; only, as he was such a great merchant and a\nfrequent trader by his vessel, he agreed to put back with him instead\nof throwing him overboard. He first, however, asked,--\n\n'And what may the thing be that you have to take to your daughter?'\n\n'Nothing but a pot of rue,' replied the merchant.\n\n'A pot of rue!' answered the captain; 'that is no easy matter. In the\nwhole country there is no one has a plant of it but the king, and he\nis so choice over it that he has decreed that if anyone venture to\nask him only for a single leaf he shall instantly be put to death.'\n\n'That is bad hearing,' said the merchant. 'Nevertheless, as I have\npromised to get it I must make the trial, and if I perish in the\nattempt I might have had a worse death.'\n\nSo they landed the merchant, and he went straight up to the king's\npalace.\n\n'Majesty!' he said, throwing himself on his knees before the\nthrone. 'It is in no spirit of wantonness I break the decree which\nforbids the asking a single leaf of the precious plant of rue. A\npromise was on me before I knew the king's decree, and I am bound\nthereby to ask not merely a single leaf but the whole plant, of the\nking, even though it be at peril of my life.'\n\nThen said the king,--\n\n'To whom hadst thou made this promise?'\n\nAnd the merchant made answer,--\n\n'Though it was only to my youngest daughter I made the promise,\nyet having made it, I will not leave off from asking for it.'\n\nThen the king answered,--\n\n'Because thou hast been faithful to thy promise, and courageous in\nrisking thy life rather than to break thy word, behold I give the whole\nplant at thy desire; and this without breaking my royal decree. For my\ndecree said that whoso desired a single leaf should be put to death,\nbut in that thou hast asked the whole plant thou hast shown a courage\nworthy of reward.'\n\nSo he took the plant of rue and gave it to the merchant to give to\nhis daughter; moreover, he bade him tell her that she should every\nnight burn a leaf of the plant. With that he dismissed him.\n\nThe merchant returned home and distributed the presents he had brought\nto his daughters, and not more pleased were the elder ones with their\nfine gifts than was the younger with her simple pot of rue. In the\nevening they went with their father to the ball as usual, but the\nyoungest staid at home as she was wont to do, and this night she\nburnt a leaf of the rue as the king had bidden her. But the king had\nthree beautiful sons, and no sooner had she burnt the rue leaf than\nthe eldest son of the king appeared before her, and sitting beside\nher, said so many kind things that no evening had ever passed so\npleasantly. This she did every evening as the king had bidden.\n\nBut the other merchants said to the merchant her father,--\n\n'How is it that only two daughters come to the balls?'\n\nAnd the merchant, not knowing how to account for the youngest\ndaughter's preference for staying at home, answered,--\n\n'I have only two daughters old enough to come to the balls?'\n\nBut the other merchants said,--\n\n'Nay, but bring now thy youngest daughter.'\n\nSo the next evening the merchant made the youngest daughter go with\nhim to the ball, and the two elder daughters were left at home.\n\nAs the youngest was wont never to leave her room, the others,\nhow jealous soever they were of her, were never able to do her any\nharm. But now that they felt secure she was absent for a considerable\nspace, they went into her apartment and set fire to it, and the whole\nplace was burnt, and also the garden, and the plant of rue.\n\nIf the king's son had come in haste for the burning of a single leaf,\nI leave it to be imagined with what speed he came for the burning\nof the whole plant. With such impetus, indeed, he came, that he\nwas bruised and burnt all over with the flaming beams of which the\napartment was built, and cut all over with the broken glass; so that\nwhen he reached home again he was in a sorry plight indeed.\n\nBut the youngest daughter, coming home with her father from the ball,\nand finding all her apartment burnt to the ground, as well as all\nthe plants in the garden, and with them the pot of rue, she said,\n'I will stay no more in this place.' So she dressed herself in man's\nclothes and wandered forth.\n\nOn, on, on, she went, till night came, and she could go no further,\nbut she laid herself to sleep under a tree. In the middle of the night\ncame an ogre and an ogress, [67] and laid themselves down also under\nthe tree. Then she heard the ogre speaking to the ogress, and saying,\n'Our king's eldest son, the flower of the land, is sore ill and like\nto die, having fallen through the window of the highest story of the\npalace, and is cut with the glass, and bruised all over. What shall\nbe done to heal the king's eldest son, the flower of the land?'\n\nAnd the ogress made answer: 'This is what should be done--but it\nis well no one knows it. They should kill us, and take the fat that\nis round our hearts and make an ointment, and anoint therewith the\nwounds of the king's son.'\n\nWhen the merchant's daughter heard this, she waited till the ogre and\nogress were gone to sleep; then she took out a brace of pistols--for\nwith the man's dress she had also a brace of pistols--and with one\nin each hand she killed the ogre and ogress together, and with her\nknife she ripped them open, and took out the fat that was round their\nhearts. Then she journeyed on till she came to the king's palace. At\nthe door of the palace stood a guard, who told her there was no\nentrance for such as her; but she said, 'To heal the wounds of the\nking's eldest son am I come.'\n\nThen the sentinel laughed, and said, 'So many great and learned\nsurgeons have come, and have benefited him nothing, there is no\nentrance for a mountebank like thee. Begone! begone!'\n\nBut she, knowing certainly that she had the only means of healing,\nwould not be sent away; and when the sentinel would have driven her\noff she struggled so bravely that he had to call out all the guard\nto resist her; and when they all used their strength against her,\nshe protested so loudly that the noise of the struggle made the king\nhimself begin to inquire what was the matter. Then they told him,\n'Behold, there stands without a low and base fellow, who would fain\npretend to heal the wounds of the king's son.'\n\nBut the king answered: 'As all the great and learned surgeons have\nfailed, let even the travelling doctor try his skill; maybe he knows\nsome means of healing.'\n\nThen she was brought into the apartment of the king's son, and she\nasked for all she needed to make the ointment, and linen for bandages,\nand to be left alone with him for the space of a week. At the end\nof a week the king's son was perfectly cured and well. Then she\ndressed herself with care, but still in the garb of a travelling\ndoctor--for she had no other--and stood before him, and said,\n'Know you me not?' And when he looked at her he said, 'Ah! yes; the\nmaiden of the rue plant!' For till then she had been so soiled with\nthe dust of travel that he could not recognise her. Then when he had\nrecognised her he protested he would marry her, and, sending to the\nking his father, he told him the same.\n\nWhen the king heard of his resolve, he said, 'It is well that the\nprince is healed of his wounds; but with the return of bodily health\nit is evident he has lost his reason, in that he is determined to\nmarry his surgeon. Nevertheless, as nothing is gained in this kind\nof malady by contradiction, it is best to humour him. We must get\nthis surgeon to submit to be dressed up like a princess, and we must\namuse him by letting him go through the form of marrying her.'\n\nIt was done, therefore, as the king had said. But when the ladies of\nthe court came to attend the supposed surgeon, and saw her dressed in\nher bridal robes, they saw by the way they became her that she was\nindeed a woman and no surgeon, and that the prince was by no means\ndistempered in his mind.\n\nBut the prince silenced their exclamations, saying: 'Nay, but say\nnothing; for perchance if my father knew that this should be a real\nmarriage, and no mere make-believe to humour a disordered whim, he\nmight withhold his consent, seeing the maiden is no princess. But\nI know she is the wife destined for me, because my mother, before\nshe died, told me I should know her by the pot of rue; and because,\nby devoting herself to healing me, she has deserved well of me. So\nlet the marriage go through, even as the king my father had devised.'\n\nSo the marriage was celebrated, and when the king learnt afterwards\nthat the pretended surgeon was a real maiden, he knew the thing could\nnot be altered, and said nothing. So the merchant's daughter became\nthe prince's wife.\n\n\n\n[The following is a third variant of this story, but so like the last,\nthat I only give an abbreviated version of it.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nKING OTHO. [68]\n\n\nIn this case the merchant, when he goes out to buy his wares, asks\nhis three daughters what he shall bring them. The eldest asks for\nfine dresses, the second for beautiful shawls, the third for nothing\nbut some sand out of the garden of King Otho. The king had registered\nsentence of death against anyone who should ask for the sand. But in\nconsideration of a bribe of three hundred scudi the gardener gives\nhim a little.\n\nWhen she gets it, the daughter burns a little in the evening, when\nthe sisters are gone to a ball. Instantly King Otho comes, and falls\nin love with her. She gives him a most exquisite pair of knee-bands\nshe has embroidered, before he goes away. The second night she gives\nhim a handkerchief of her work, and the third a beautiful necktie.\n\nAfter this, her father insists one evening that she should go to the\nball. Her sisters say that if she goes they shall stay away. When she\nis gone they burn down her room, and in it all the sand of King Otho's\ngarden. If the king came quickly for the burning of a little pinch, he\nnaturally comes in exceeding greater haste at the burning of the whole\nquantity: in such haste that he is wounded all over with the blazing\nbeams and broken glass. There is a great explosion. [69] As he knew\nnothing about the spite of the sisters, he could only think that the\nmischief arose from the misconduct of her to whom the sand had been\ngiven, and determines accordingly to have nothing more to do with her.\n\nWhen she comes home, and finds what has happened, she is in\ndespair. She dresses like a man and goes away. In the night, in a\ncave where she takes shelter, she hears an ogre and ogress talking\nover what has happened, and they say that the only cure is an\nointment made of their blood. [70] She shoots them both, and takes\ntheir blood and heals the king with it. The king offers any kind of\nreward the supposed doctor will name; but she will have nothing but\nsome of the sand of the garden. She contrives, however, to discover\nthe knee-bands, the handkerchief, and the necktie she had given him,\nand asks him what they are. 'Oh, only the presents of a faithless\nlover,' he replies. She then insists he should give them up to her,\nwhich he does, and she goes away.\n\nWhen she gets home she burns a pinch of the sand, and the king is\nforced by its virtue to appear; but he comes in great indignation, and\naccuses her of wounding him. She replies it was not she who wounded\nhim, but who healed him. He is incredulous; and she shows him the\nknee-bands, handkerchief, and necktie, which convince him he owes\nhis healing to her. They make peace, and are married.\n\n\n[Mr. Ralston gives a very pretty counterpart of so much of this story\nas relates to the transformation of a human being into a flower, at\np. 15 of the story commencing at page 10, and 'Aschenputtel,' Grimm,\np. 93, has something like it; but I do not recall any European story\nin which a person is actually wounded and half-killed by damage done\nto a tree mysteriously connected with him. There is something like\nit in the 'trees of life' which people plant, and their withering is\nto be a token that harm has befallen them.\n\nOverhearing the advice of supernatural beasts under a tree occurs\nin the Norse 'True and Untrue,' and is very common in all sorts of\nways, everywhere. It enters, too, into the analogous Italian Tirolean\ntale of 'I due cavallari,' where witches figure instead of the orco\nand orchessa.\n\nNext, are four stories in which many incidents of the Cinderella\ntype are set in a different framework; they are represented in the\nGaelic by 'The King who wanted to marry his Daughter;' at the end of\nwhich reference will be found to other versions, where are details\noccurring in one or other of the following: that from Straparola is\nnaturally the most like the Roman, but it is not like any one of them\nall throughout, and forms a remarkable link between the first Roman\nand the two Gaelic versions. The girl's answer, that she 'came from\nthe country of candlesticks,' in the second version, is noteworthy,\nbecause it connects it with the Roman story of the 'Candeliera,'\nat the same time that it conveys no sense in its own. The box in\nthe Gaelic versions recalls, just as Mr. Campbell says, the fine\nold chests which served for conveying home the corredo (including\nmuch more than trousseau in its modern use) of the bride, which are\nnot only preserved as heirlooms and curiosities in many an Italian\npalace, but in many a museum also; there are some very handsome ones\nat Perugia. And yet it is just in the Italian versions that the box\nloses this character. In Straparola's, it is a wardrobe; in the two\nversions of 'Maria di Legno,' a wooden statue; in 'La Candeliera,'\nit has the shape of a candlestick. In the third version of 'Maria di\nLegno,' the box used is only an old press that happens to be in the\ndeserted tower.\n\nMr. Ralston, pp. 77-8, supplies a Russian counterpart, in which it\nis a prince, and not a maiden, who is conveyed in a provisioned box,\nand this is linked hereby with the Hungarian story of Iron Ladislas,\nwho descends by such means to the underground world in search of\nhis sisters; and this again connects this story both with those\nin which I have already had occasion to mention him and with one\nto follow called 'Il R\u00e8 Moro,' one I have in MS. called 'Il Cavolo\nd'oro,' &c. The first and more elaborate of the four Roman stories,\n'Maria di Legno,' does the same.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMARIA WOOD. [71]\n\n\nOnce again my story is of a widower father; this time, however, a\nking, and having one only daughter, Maria, the apple of his eye and\nthe pride of his heart. The one concern of his life was to marry her\nwell and happily before he died.\n\nThe queen, whom he believed to be wise above mortal women, had left\nhim when she died a ring, with the advice to listen to the addresses\nof no one on Maria's behalf but his whose finger a gold ring which\nshe gave him should fit, for that he whom it alone should fit would\nbe a noble and a worthy husband indeed.\n\nMaria's teacher was very different from those we have had to do with\nhitherto; she was a beneficent fairy, whose services her good and\nclever mother had obtained for her under this disguise, and all her\nlessons and actions were directed entirely for her benefit, and she\nwas able to advise and look out for her better than her father himself.\n\nTime went by, and no one who came to court Maria had a finger which\nthe ring would fit. It was not that Maria was not quite young enough to\nwait, but her father was growing old and feeble, and full of ailments,\nand he hasted to see her settled in life before death called him away.\n\nAt last there came to sue for Maria's hand a most accomplished\ncavalier, who declared himself to be a prince of a distant region,\nand he certainly brought costly presents, and was attended by a\nbrilliant retinue well calculated to sustain the alleged character.\n\nThe father, who had had so much trouble about fitting the ring, was\nmuch disposed not to attend any more to this circumstance when the\nprince objected to be subjected to so trivial a trial. After some days,\nhowever, as he hesitated finally to make up his mind to bestow her on\nhim without his having fulfilled this condition, he suddenly consented\nto submit to it, when, lo and behold, the ring could not be found!\n\n'If you have not got the ring,' said the prince, 'it really is not my\nfault if it is not tried on. You see I am perfectly willing to accept\nthe test, but if you cannot apply it you must not visit it on me.'\n\n'What you say is most reasonable,' said the father. 'But what can I\ndo? I promised her mother I would not let the girl marry anyone but\nhim the ring fitted.'\n\n'Do you mean then that the girl is never to marry at all, since you\nhave lost the ring! That would be monstrous indeed. You may be sure,\nhowever, in my case, the ring would have fitted if you had had it here,\nbecause I am so exactly the kind of husband your wife promised the ring\nshould fit. So what more reasonable than to give her to me? However,\nto meet your wishes and prejudices to the utmost, I am willing to\nsubmit to any other test, however difficult, the young lady herself\nlikes to name. Nay, I will say--three tests. Will that satisfy you?'\n\nAll this was so perfectly reasonable that the father felt he could not\nbut agree to it, and Maria was told to be ready the next day to name\nthe first of the tests which she would substitute for that of the ring.\n\nThough the prince was so handsome, so accomplished, so rich, and so\npersevering with his suit, Maria felt an instinctive dislike to him,\nwhich embarrassed her the more that she had no fault of any sort to\nfind with him which she could make patent to her father.\n\nTo the compassionate and appreciative bosom of her teacher she poured\nout all her grief, and found there a ready response.\n\nThe teacher, who by her fairy powers knew what mortals could not\nknow, knew that the prince was no other than the devil, [72] and\nthat the marriage must be prevented at any price, but that it would\nbe vain for her to give this information to the father, as he would\nhave laughed in her face, and told her to go and rule copy-books and\nknit stockings. She must, therefore, set to work in a different way\nto protect her charge from the impending evil.\n\nIn the first instance, however, and without mentioning the alarming\ndisclosure of who her suitor really was, she merely bid Maria to be\nof good courage and all would come right; and for the test she had\nto propose, she bid her ask him to produce a dress woven of the stars\nof heaven.\n\nThe next morning, accordingly, when the prince came to inquire what\nher good pleasure was, she asked him to bring her a dress woven of\nthe stars of heaven.\n\nThe prince bit his lip, and a look of fierceness it had never worn\nbefore stole over his face at hearing this request. And though he\ninstantly put on a smile, there was much suppressed anger perceptible\nin the tone with which he answered,\n\n'This is not your own idea. Some one who has no good will towards me\nhas told you this.'\n\n'It was no part of the condition, I think, that I should act without\nadvice, and certainly no part of it that I should say whether I\ntook advice or not,' replied Maria discreetly; and then her desire\nto break from the engagement making her bold, she added, 'But, you\nknow, if you do not like the test, or consider it in any way unfair,\nI do not press you to accept it. You will meet with no reproach from\nme if you renounce it.'\n\n'Oh dear no! I have no such wish,' the prince hastened to reply. 'The\ndress woven of the stars of heaven will be here by to-morrow morning,\nand you have only to be ready by the same time to name what is the\nsecond test you propose.'\n\nMaria hastened back to her teacher to recount the story of the\nmorning's work; to tell of the moment of hope she had had that the\nprince would renounce the attempt, and then his final acceptance of\nthe undertaking. 'Dear teacher mine! Cannot you think of something\nelse so very, very difficult I can give him to do to-morrow that he\nmay be obliged to refuse it?'\n\n'To-morrow I would have you ask him for a dress woven of moonbeams,'\nreplied the teacher; 'which will be very difficult to supply; but I\nfear he will yet find the means of accomplishing it.'\n\nThe next morning the dress woven of the stars of heaven was brought\nin by six pages, and it was all they could do to carry it, for the\ndazzling of the rays of the stars in their eyes. When the dress of\nmoonbeams was asked for, the prince showed little less impatience than\nat the first request, but yet undertook to supply it, and reminded\nMaria that the next day she must be ready with her third test.\n\nOnce more Maria had recourse to her sage teacher's counsels, and this\ntime was advised to ask for a dress woven of sunbeams.\n\nThe next day the dress woven of moonbeams was produced, but it required\ntwelve pages to bring it in, for it was so dazzling they could only\nhold it for ten minutes at a stretch, and they had to carry it in\nrelays, six at a time. When Maria now asked for the dress woven of\nsunbeams, the prince grew so angry that she was quite frightened, and\nat the same time entertained for a moment a confident hope that now,\nat last, he would own himself baffled. Nevertheless, at the end of a\nfew moments' hesitation, he pronounced his intention of complying, but\nadded in almost a threatening tone, 'And remember that when it comes\nto-morrow morning you will not then have any more ridiculous tests\nto prefer, but will belong to me for ever, and must be prepared to\ngo away with me in the carriage that will be at the door.' He turned\non his heel as he spoke and stalked away, without saying good-bye,\nor so much as turning to look at her, or he would have seen she had\nsunk down on the ground in an agony of despair.\n\nHer father came in and found her thus, and asked her what could\npossibly put her into such a state on the eve of such a brilliant\nmarriage. Maria threw herself in his arms and told him all her\ndistress, but when it was told it sounded childish and unreasonable.\n\n'Can anything be more absurd?' replied the old man. 'To-morrow I may\nbe dead, and what will become of you? What can you desire more than\na husband suited to you in age and person, with every advantage the\nworld can offer? And you would throw all this away for the sake of\na foolish fancy you cannot even explain! Dry your tears and do not\nlisten to such fancies any more, and keep your pretty little face in\ngood order for looking as smiling and as pleasing as such a devoted\nhusband deserves you should look on your wedding morning. It is I\nwho have to lament; I who shall be left alone in my old age; but I\ndo not repine, I shall be quite happy for my few remaining days in\nknowing that you have all the happiness life can afford you;' and as\nhe spoke he clasped her fondly in his arms.\n\nMaria, reassured by his words, began to think he was in the right,\nand she was thus as cheerful as he could wish that last night they\nwere to spend together.\n\nBut when night came and she found the teacher who understood her so\nwell, waiting to put her to bed for the last time, all her own true\nfeelings came back, and, bursting into tears, she entreated her to\nfind some way of delivering her.\n\n'The time has come,' replied the teacher, 'that I should tell you\nall. The innocence and truthfulness of your heart guided you right in\nbelieving that the prince was no husband for you. You did not, and\ncould not, know who he was; but now I must tell you he is the devil\nhimself. Nay; do not shudder and tremble so; it remains entirely with\nyourself to decide whether you shall be his or not; he can have no\nsort of power over any against their will.'\n\n'But, of course, I will have nothing to do with him,' replied the\nchild, simply. 'Why don't you tell papa, and make him send him away?'\n\n'Because, for one thing, he would not believe me. As I have said,\nthe prince being what he is can have no power over you against your\nown will. Your breaking from him must be your own act. Further,\nyou must understand the terms of the struggle. Power is given him\nto deceive, and thus he has deceived your father. I have been set by\nyour mother to watch over you, and I can tell you what he is, but I\nhave no power to undeceive your father. If I were to attempt it it\nwould do no good, he would not believe me, and it would break his\nheart to see you renounce so promising an union. On the other hand,\nyou must understand that when the devil wooes a maiden in this form\nhe does not suddenly after appear with horns and hoofs and carry her\noff to brimstone and fire. For the term of your life he will behave\nwith average kindness and affection, and he will abundantly supply\nyou with the good things of this world. After that I need not say\nwhat the effect of his power over you will be. On the other hand,\nif you give him up you must be prepared to undergo many trials and\nprivations. It is not merely going on with your present life such as\nit has been up till now. Those peaceful days are allowed for youthful\nstrength to mature, but now the time has come that you have to make\na life-choice. What do you say? Have you courage to renounce the\nease and enjoyment the prince has to offer you and face poverty,\nwith the want and the insults which come in its train?'\n\nPoor little Maria looked very serious. She had never felt any great\nattraction for the prince, it is true, but now the question was placed\nupon a new issue. She had learnt enough about duty and sacrifice,\nand she had always intended to do right at all costs, but now that\nthe day of trial had come it seemed so different from what she had\nexpected, she knew not what to say.\n\n'You are tired to-night, my child; and it is late,' said the\nteacher. 'We will say no more till the morning. I will wake you\nbetimes and you shall tell me your mind then.'\n\nIn the morning Maria's mind was made up. She had chosen the good part;\nbut how was she to be delivered from the prince?\n\n'This is what you will have to do,' replied the teacher, after\ncommending her good resolution. 'I have had made ready for you a wooden\nfigure of an old woman, inside which I will stow away all that you\nhave valuable, for it may be of use some day, but especially I will\nbestow there the dresses woven of the stars of heaven, of moonbeams,\nand that of sunbeams, which, I doubt not, the prince will bring you,\naccording to promise, in the morning. When you have driven with him\nin his carriage all day, towards evening you will find yourself in\na thick wood. Say to him you are tired with sitting in the carriage\nall day, and ask to be allowed to walk a little way in the wood\nbefore sundown. I, meantime, will place ready my wooden figure of\nan old woman, which you will find there, and, watching for a moment\nwhen he has his head turned, place yourself inside the figure and\nwalk away. There is another thing which you must do, which is very\nimportant. When the ring was lost, you must know it was he who took it,\nand, though he kept it studiously concealed all the while he was in\nyour father's palace, he will now carry it boldly slung on the feather\nin his cap; this you must find means of possessing yourself of during\nthe journey, because it is essential to you that you should have it\nin your own hands. And fear nothing either, in making your escape,\nfor the ring is your own property, which he has falsely taken; and,\nin leaving him, remember he can have no power over you against your\nwill. I may not inform you what may befall you in your new character\nas poor Maria Wood, but be good and courageous; always, as now,\nchoose the right bravely in all questions and doubts, and you shall\nnot go unrewarded.'\n\nThere was little time for leave-taking between the good teacher and\nher affectionate pupil, for the prince almost immediately after came to\nclaim his bride, and all the neighbours and friends came, too, to the\nfestivities. The dress woven of sunbeams was brought by four-and-twenty\npages, for it was so dazzling they could not hold it for more than\nfive minutes at a time, and they had to carry it by relays.\n\nAt last leave-takings and festivities were over, and, amid the\ngood-wishes and blessings of all, Maria drove away in the prince's\ncarriage. On they drove all day, and towards the end of it, as it was\ngetting dark, Maria contrived to twitch the ring from the prince's\ncap without his being aware of it; presently after she exclaimed,\n'Oh dear! how cramped I feel from sitting all day in this carriage;\ncannot I walk a little way in this wood before it gets dark?'\n\n'Most certainly you can, if you wish,' replied the prince, who,\nhaving everything his own way, was in a very accommodating humour.\n\nWhen they had walked a little way down the forest-path, Maria espied\nthe wooden form she was to assume, placed ready under a tree.\n\n'That old woman will have a longish way to go to get a night's shelter,\nI fancy,' exclaimed the prince, with a laugh which made Maria shudder,\nboth from its heartlessness and also because it reminded her that she\nwould soon find herself alone, far from shelter, in that dark wood. But\nwas it not better to be alone in the dark than in such company as\nthat she was about to leave, she said to herself. Then she turned\nonce more to look at it. The figure looked so natural she could not\nforbear saying mechanically, 'Poor old woman! give me a little coin\nto bestow on her that she may wish us Godspeed on our night-journey.'\n\n'Nonsense!' replied the prince. 'Never let me hear you talk such\nidle stuff. And, come, it is time to go back into the carriage;\nit is getting quite dark.'\n\n'Oh! what a beautiful firefly!' exclaimed Maria, reminded by the\nspeech to hasten her separation from her uncongenial companion,\n'Oh, do catch it for me!'\n\nThe prince lifted his cap, and ran a few steps after the insect. 'Oh,\nI see another, and I shall catch it before you catch yours--you'll\nsee!' So saying, she darted towards the tree where the wooden figure\nstood ready, and placing herself inside, walked slowly and freely\nalong, counterfeiting the gait of an aged and weary woman.\n\nThe prince had soon caught the firefly and was bringing it back in\ntriumph, when, to his dismay, Maria was nowhere to be seen. He ran\nthis way and that, called and shouted in vain. The servants with the\ncarriage were too far off to have seen anything; there was no witness\nto appeal to but the old woman.\n\n'Which way did the young lady run who was walking with me just now?' he\neagerly inquired.\n\n'Down that path there to the right, as fast as the firefly itself could\nfly, and if she comes back as quickly as she went she will be back\npresently,' replied Maria Wood, feigning the voice of an old woman.\n\nThe prince ran in the direction indicated, and was soon himself lost\nin the mazes of the forest, where he wandered hopelessly all night;\nand only when the morning light came was he able to make his way back\nto his carriage, and drive home ashamed and crestfallen, giving up his\nconquest in despair, and vowing useless vengeance against the fairy\ngodmother, whose intervention he now recognised it was had baffled him.\n\nMaria meantime walked steadily and fearlessly along, guided by\nthe stars which peeped here and there through the tall trees. Nor\nwas shelter so far off as the prince had said. Before very long a\nparty of charcoal-burners hailed her, and offered a share of such\npoor hospitality as they could command. It was very different from\nthe comforts of her father's house; but Maria took it as the first\ninstalment of the hardships she had accepted.\n\nMaria's wooden form was very skilfully made; the limbs had supple\njoints, which could be moved by the person inside just like those\nof a living being; and the clothes the teacher had provided being\njust like those of the country people about, no one entertained the\nleast suspicion that Maria Wood, as she had now become, was anything\ndifferent from themselves.\n\nThe charcoal-burners were kind, simple people, and, finding Maria\nwilling to assist them in their labours to the extent of her powers,\nproposed to her to stay and cast in her lot with them as long as the\nseason for their work lasted; and she did their hard work and shared\ntheir poor fare with never a word of complaint.\n\nAt last, one day, when she was on I know not what errand, at some\ndistance from the encampment, the young king of the country, who had\nlately been called to the throne, came through the forest hunting,\nwith a large retinue of followers. Crash, crash, like thunder, went\nthe brushwood as the wild boar trampled it down, and the eager dogs\nbounded after him with lightning speed. They passed close to Maria,\nwho was as much alarmed as if she had really been the old woman she\nseemed to be: but when she saw the riders bearing down upon her, their\nhorses' hoofs tearing up the soil, and the branches everywhere giving\nway before their impetuosity, her heart failed her entirely, and she\nswooned away upon the grass. The king, however, was the only one whose\ncourse passed over the spot where she was, and he only perceived her\nin time to rein up his mount just before it might have trampled on her.\n\n'See here to this old body, whom we have nearly frightened to death,'\nhe cried; and the huntsmen came and lifted her up.\n\n'Some of you carry her home to the palace, that she may be attended\nto,' said the king further; and they carried her home to the palace,\nand laid her on a bed, and restored her senses.\n\nWhen the king came home from the hunt, he would go himself to see\nhow it had fared with her; and when he found her almost restored he\nasked her whither she would wish to be sent.\n\n'Little it matters to me where I go,' replied Maria Wood, in the\nsaddened voice of grief-stricken age; 'for home and kindred have I\nnone. Little it matters where I lay my weary bones to rest.'\n\nWhen the king heard her speak thus he compassionated her, and inquired\nif there was any service in the household that could be offered her.\n\n'Please your Majesty, there is not much strength in her for work,'\nreplied the steward; 'but, if such is your royal will, she can be\nset to help the scullions in the kitchen.'\n\n'Will that suit you, old dame?' inquired the king. 'They shall not\nask too much of you, and a good table and warm shelter shall never\nbe wanting.'\n\n'All thanks to your Majesty's bounty. My heart could desire nothing\nmore than to live thus under the shadow of your Majesty,' replied\nMaria, making a humble obeisance.\n\nAnd thus Maria, from a princess, became a servant of servants.\n\n'What's the use of giving us such a cranky old piece as that for a\nhelp?' said the scullion to the turnspit, as Maria was introduced to\nher new quarters.\n\n'Why, as to that, as she has taken the service she must do it, cranky\nor not cranky,' answered the turnspit.\n\n'Aye, I dare say we shall be able to get it out of her one way or\nanother,' replied the scullion.\n\nAnd they did get it out of her; and Maria had more put upon her,\nand less of kind words and scarcely better food than with the\ncharcoal-burners. But she took it all in silence and patience,\nand no complaint passed her lips. She had no fixed duties, but one\ncalled her here and another there; she was at everyone's bidding,\nbut she did her best to content them all.\n\nThen came the Carneval; and on the last three days every servant\nhad license to don a domino and dance at the king's ball. What an\nopportunity for Maria Wood! After serving in her unbecoming disguise\nwith so much endurance and perseverance for now a full year, here was\none day on which she might wear a becoming dress, and enjoy herself\naccording to the measure of her age and sex, and due position in\nthe world.\n\nAll the household, all royal as it was, was in a hubbub of\nconfusion. No one was at work--no one at his post; and there was no\none to notice that Maria Wood was absent, like the rest.\n\nLocking herself into the loft which served her for a sleeping-place,\nMaria not only came out of her wooden disguise, but took out of it\nthe garment woven of the stars of heaven--a most convenient dress for\nthe occasion. At a masqued ball no one can recognise anybody else,\nexcept by a guess suggested by familiar characteristics which the\ndomino fails to disguise. But no one at the king's court was familiar\nwith the characteristics of Maria Wood; and wherever she passed the\nwhole company was in an excitement to know whose was the elegant figure\nshrouded in such a marvellous costume. But there was so much majesty in\nher air, that no one durst ask her to dance or so much as approach her.\n\nOnly the king himself felt conscious of the right to offer to lead\nher to the dance; and she, who had not forgotten how handsome he was,\nand how kind he had been on the night that his huntsmen had nearly\nfrightened her to death in the forest, right willingly accepted\nthe favour. But even he was so awed by her grace and dignity, that,\ncharmed as he was with her conversation, and burning to know her style\nand title, he yet could not frame the question that would ascertain\nwhence she had come.\n\nVery early in the evening, while the other masquers reckoned the\namusement was only beginning, Maria, with characteristic moderation,\nchose an opportunity for withdrawing unperceived from the ballroom.\n\nIt will readily be imagined that the next night every one was full of\ncuriosity, and the king most of all, to know whether the lady in the\nstarry dress would appear again; and the more that, though everybody\nhad been talking of her to the exclusion of everyone else the whole\nintervening day through, no one could offer a satisfactory conjecture\nas to who she could possibly be.\n\nWhile all eyes were full of expectation, accordingly, the second\nevening, suddenly and unannounced there appeared in their midst a form,\ngraceful and mobile like hers they had so much admired, but draped in\na still more dazzling dress (for Maria this night wore her garment\nwoven of moonbeams); and it was only the king who had the certainty\nthat it was really the same person.\n\n'Why did you take away all the light of our ball so early last\nnight?' inquired the king, as they were dancing together.\n\n'I have to be up early, and so I must go to bed early,' replied Maria.\n\n'And what can a sylph-like creature like you have to get up early\nin the morning for? You are only fit to lie on a bed of roses, with\nnightingales to sing to you,' pursued the king.\n\n'My occupations are very different, I can assure your Majesty,'\nsaid Maria, with a hearty laugh.\n\n'What can those occupations possibly be?' inquired the king eagerly;\n'I am dying to know.'\n\n'Oh, fie! You must not ask a domino such a direct question as that;\nit is as bad as asking her name, and that is against all rules. But\nsee, the dancers await your Majesty; we are putting them all out.'\n\nThus she put him off, and she fenced so well that he succeeded\nno better in searching out the mystery in all his subsequent\nattempts. Though he had determined, too, never to leave her side\nall the evening, that he might certainly observe which way she went,\nshe was so alert that she defeated his plans. Kings have a certain\netiquette to observe, even at a Carneval ball; and while social\nexigencies demanded that he should bestow a salute on one and another\nof the distinguished personages present, Maria contrived to gather\nher shining raiment round her so as to invert its dazzling folds,\nand glide away unperceived.\n\nThe king was beside himself with vexation when he found she was gone;\nnor could he sleep all the succeeding night, or rather those hours\nwhich must be stolen out of the day to make a night of when the real\nnight has been spent in revels. One thought occupied him, which was\nthat the succeeding night was the last in which he could expect to\nhave the chance of obtaining an explanation from his fair partner\nof the dance. The next day began the gloom of Lent, and she would\ndisappear from his sight forever. He arranged in his head a dozen\nforms of conversation by which to entrap her into some admission by\nwhich he could find out who she could possibly be; he determined to\nbe more vigilant than ever in observing her movements; and, to provide\nagainst every possible chance of failure, he stationed guards at every\nexit of the ballroom, with strict orders to follow her when she passed.\n\nIn the midst of the ball on the third night Maria entered more radiant\nthan ever, having on her dress woven of sunbeams. The masquers put\ntheir hands up to shade their eyes as she passed, and the chandeliers\nand torches were paled by its brilliance. The king was at her side\nimmediately, but though he put in requisition all the devices he had\nprepared, Maria succeeded in evading them all, and the evening passed\naway without his being a bit wiser about how to see more of her than\nhe had been at the beginning. The only thing that gave him a little\nhope that she did not mean absolutely to abandon him, was that in the\ncourse of the evening she took out a ring, which she told him had\nnever fitted anyone yet, and begged him, as a matter of curiosity,\nto try it on his hand; and then when it strangely happened that it\nfitted him perfectly, she could not altogether conceal the pleasure\nit seemed to give her. Nevertheless, she put up the ring again, and\nwould give no further explanation about it any more than about herself.\n\nBy-and-by, choosing her moment as dexterously as before, she made her\nescape without exciting the king's attention. The guards, however,\nwere all expectation, and notwithstanding that she had taken the\nprecaution of turning the sunbeams inwards, they recognised her, and\nfollowed softly after her as they had been bidden. Maria, however,\ndid not fail to perceive they were following her, and, to divert\ntheir attention, took off a string of precious pearls she wore round\nher throat, and, unthreading them on the ground, escaped swiftly to\nher loft while the guards were occupied in gathering up the treasure.\n\nThe king was disconsolate beyond measure when he found that all\nhis schemes were foiled, and that his radiant maiden had passed\naway like the rays in which she was clothed, leaving only darkness\nand weariness for him. So disconsolate he grew that nothing could\ndistract him. He would no more occupy himself with the affairs of\nthe state, still less with any minor occupations. He could not bear\nthe light of the sun because its beams reminded him of his loss,\nand he dreaded similarly the sight of the moon or the stars, but,\nshut up in a dark room almost hopeless, he wept the weary days away.\n\nSo remarkable a change in the habits of the young king became the\nsubject of general comment, and could not fail to reach the ears of\neven so insignificant a menial as Maria. She, indeed, had every reason\nto hear of it, for scarcely could the afflicted king be induced to take\nthe simplest food, and the attendants of the kitchen were reduced to\ncomplete inactivity. Maria was no longer called hither and thither at\neveryone's pleasure, and as long as this inactivity lasted she knew\nthe king was still of the same mind about herself. But at last the\ntalk of the kitchen took a more alarming character; it was reported\nthat physicians had been called in, and had pronounced that unless\nmeans were found to distract him his state of despondency would prove\nfatal, but that nothing which had been tried had the least effect in\nrousing him from his melancholy.\n\n\n\nMeantime Lent was passing away and Easter was close at hand. Maria\nthought she might now be satisfied with his constancy, and determined\nto take the step which she had good reason to believe would restore\nall his vigour.\n\nAccordingly, while the cooks and scullions were all dispersed about\none thing and another, she went into the kitchen and made a cake, into\nwhich she put the ring, and took it up herself to the queen-mother. It\nwas not very easy for such a haggard old woman to obtain admission to\nthe private apartments, but when she declared she had come about a\nremedy for the king, she was made welcome. Having thus obtained the\near of the queen-mother, she assured her, with many protestations,\nthat if the king could he made to eat the whole of the cake, without\ngiving the least piece of it to anyone, he would be immediately\ncured. But that if he gave away the least piece the virtue might be\nlost. This was lest he should thus give away the ring to anyone. The\nladies waiting on the queen laughed at the old woman's pretensions,\nand would have driven her away with contumely, but the queen said:\n'Nay, who knows but there may be healing in it. Experience often\nteaches the old remedies which science has failed to discover.'\n\nThen she dismissed Maria with a present, and took the cake in to the\nking, trying to amuse him with the old woman's story; but the king\nrefused to be amused, and let the cake be. Only as he took no notice\nof what food he ate, and they gave him this cake for all his meals, he\ntook it as he would have taken anything else that had been set before\nhim. When he cut it, his knife struck against something hard, and when\nhe had pulled this out, he found it was the very ring his sylphlike\npartner had given him the night she wore the dress woven of sunbeams.\n\nAt the sight he started like one waking from a trance.\n\n'How came this ring here?' he exclaimed; and the queen-mother, who\nhad stood by to see the effect of the remedy, replied,\n\n'A certain old woman, whom you befriended in the forest and told\nthe servants to shelter in the palace, brought me the cake, saying\nit would prove a remedy for your melancholy, which she had prepared\nout of gratitude.'\n\n'Let her be called instantly hither,' then said the king; and they\nwent to fetch Maria Wood; but Maria could nowhere be found.\n\nThe king was at this announcement very nearly relapsing into his\nformer condition; but the idea came to his mind to find something\nout by means of the ring itself. Therefore he summoned together all\nthe goldsmiths, and refiners, and alchemists of his kingdom, and bid\nthem tell him the history of the ring.\n\nAt the end of seven days' trial the oldest of the alchemists brought\nit back to the king and said:\n\n'We find, O King, that this ring is made of gold which comes from\nafar. Moreover, that the workmanship is such as is only produced in\nthe kingdoms of the West, and the characters on it pronounce that its\nowner is a princess of high degree, whose dominions exceed greatly\nthose of the King's Majesty in magnitude.'\n\nThe king now ordered a more urgent search to be made for Maria Wood,\nas the only clue by which to reach the fair owner of the ring; and\nMaria, having heard by report of the alchemists' announcement, thought\nit was time to let herself be known. Habiting herself, therefore,\nin becoming attire, with jewels befitting her rank, with all of which\nthe fairy had amply provided her, she entered for the last time her\nwooden covering, and went up to the king in answer to his summons.\n\n'Come hither, good woman,' said the king encouragingly; 'you have\nindeed done me good service in sending me this ring, and have repaid\na hundredfold the little favour I bestowed on you in taking you into\nthe palace. If, now, you will further bring me hither her to whom this\nring belongs, or take me where I may find her, you shall not only\nlive in the palace, but shall live there in royal state and luxury,\nand whatsoever more you may desire.'\n\nAt these words Maria stepped out of her wooden case, and stood before\nthe king in all her youthful beauty, telling him all her story.\n\nThe proofs that supported it were sufficient to silence every doubt;\nand when the people were called together to celebrate her marriage\nwith the king, the whole nation hailed her accession as their queen\nwith the greatest delight.\n\nSoon after, the royal pair went to visit Maria's father, who had the\njoy of knowing that his child was really well established in life. They\nstayed with him till he died; and then his dominions were added to\nthose of the king, Maria's husband. Maria did not forget to inquire\nfor her good mistress, but she had long ago gone back to Fairyland.\n\n\n\n\nSECOND VERSION.\n\nAnother version of this, differing in many details, was given me in\nthe following form. The former was from Loreto; this, from Rome itself.\n\nThey say, there was a king, whose wife, when she came to die, said\nto him,\n\n'When I am dead, you will want to marry again; but take my advice:\nmarry no woman but her whose foot my shoe fits.'\n\nBut this she said because the shoe was under a spell, and would fit\nno one whom he could marry.\n\nThe king, however, caused the shoe to be tried on all manner of women;\nand when the answer always was that it would fit none of them, he\ngrew quite bewildered and strange in his mind.\n\nAfter some years had passed, his young daughter, having grown up to\ngirl's estate, came to him one day, saying,\n\n'Oh, papa; only think! Mamma's shoe just fits me!'\n\n'Does it!' replied the simple king; 'then I must marry you.'\n\n'Oh, that cannot be, papa,' said the girl, and ran away.\n\nBut the simple king was so possessed with the idea that he must marry\nthe woman whom his wife's shoe fitted, that he sent for her every day\nand said the same thing. But the queen had not said that he should\nmarry the woman whom her shoe fitted, but that he should not marry\nany whom it did not fit.\n\nWhen the princess found that he persevered in his silly caprice,\nshe said at last,\n\n'Papa, if I am to do what you say, you must do something for me first.'\n\n'Agreed, my child,' replied the king; 'you have only to speak.'\n\n'Then, before I marry,' said the girl, 'I want a lot of things,\nbut I will begin with one at a time. First, I want a dress of the\ncolour of a beautiful noontide sky, but all covered with stars,\nlike the sky at midnight, and furnished with a parure to suit it.' [73]\n\nSuch a dress the king had made and brought to her.\n\n'Next,' said the princess, 'I want a dress of the colour of the sea,\nall covered with golden fishes, with a fitting parure.'\n\nSuch a dress the king had made, and brought to her.\n\n'Next,' said the princess, 'I want a dress of a dark blue, all covered\nwith gold embroidery and spangled with silver bells, and with a parure\nto match.'\n\nSuch a dress the king had made and brought to her.\n\n'These are all very good,' said the princess; 'but now you must send\nfor the most cunning artificer in your whole kingdom, and let him\nmake me a figure of an old woman [74] just like life, fitted with all\nsorts of springs to make it move and walk when one gets inside it,\njust like a real woman.'\n\nSuch a figure the king had made, and brought it to the princess.\n\n'That is just the sort of figure I wanted,' said she; 'and now I\ndon't want anything more.'\n\nAnd the simple king went away quite happy.\n\nAs soon as she was alone, however, the princess packed all the three\ndresses and many of her other dresses, and all her jewellery and\na large sum of money, inside the figure of the old woman, and then\nshe got into it and walked away. No one seeing an old woman walking\nout of the palace thought she had anything to do with the princess,\nand thus she got far away without anyone thinking of stopping her.\n\nOn, on, on, she wandered till she came to the palace of a great king,\nand just at the time that the king's son was coming in from hunting.\n\n'Have you a place in all this fine palace to take in a poor old\nbody?' whined the princess inside the figure of the old woman.\n\n'No, no! get out of the way! How dare you come in the way of the\nprince!' said the servants, and drove her away.\n\nBut the prince took compassion on her, and called her to him.\n\n'What's your name, good woman?' said the prince.\n\n'Maria Wood is my name, your Highness,' replied the princess.\n\n'And what can you do, since you ask for a place?'\n\n'Oh, I can do many things. First, I understand all about poultry,\nand then----'\n\n'That'll do,' replied the prince; 'take her, and let her be the\nhenwife, [75] and let her have food and lodging, and all she wants.'\n\nSo they gave her a little hut on the borders of the forest, and set\nher to tend the poultry.\n\nBut the prince as he went out hunting often passed by her hut, and\nwhen she saw him pass she never failed to come out and salute him,\nand now and then he would stop his horse and spend a few moments in\ngossip with her.\n\nBefore long it was Carneval time; and as the prince came by Maria Wood\ncame out and wished him a 'good Carneval.' [76] The prince stopped\nhis horse and said, his young head full of the pleasure he expected,\n\n'To-morrow, you know, we have the first day of the feast.'\n\n'To be sure I know it; and how I should like to be there: won't you\ntake me?' answered Maria Wood.\n\n'You shameless old woman,' replied the prince, 'to think of your\nwanting to go to a festino [77] at your time of life!' and he gave\nher a cut with his whip.\n\nThe next day Maria put on her dress of the colour of the noontide sky,\ncovered with stars like the sky at midnight, with the parure made to\nwear with it, and came to the feast. Every lady made place before\nher dazzling appearance, and the prince alone dared to ask her to\ndance. With her he danced all the evening, and fairly fell in love\nwith her, [78] nor could he leave her side; and as they sat together,\nhe took the ring off his own finger and put it on to her hand. She\nappeared equally satisfied with his attentions, and seemed to desire no\nother partner. Only when he tried to gather from her whence she was,\nshe would only say she came from the country of Whipblow, [79] which\nset the prince wondering very much, as he had never heard of such a\ncountry. At the end of the ball, the prince sent his attendants to\nwatch her that he might learn where she lived, but she disappeared\nso swiftly it was impossible for them to tell what had become of her.\n\nWhen the prince came by Maria Wood's hut next day, she did not fail\nto wish him again a 'good Carneval.'\n\n'To-morrow we have the second festino, you know,' said the prince.\n\n'Well I know it,' replied Maria Wood; 'shouldn't I like to go! Won't\nyou take me?'\n\n'You contemptible old woman to talk in that way!' exclaimed the\nprince. 'You ought to know better!' and he struck her with his boot.\n\nNext night Maria put on her dress of the colour of the sea, covered all\nover with gold fishes, and the parure made to wear with it, and went\nto the feast. The prince recognised her at once, and claimed her for\nhis partner all the evening, nor did she seem to wish for any other,\nonly when he tried to learn from her whence she was, she would only\nsay she came from the country of Bootkick. [80] The prince could not\nremember ever to have heard of the Bootkick country, and thought she\nmeant to laugh at him; however, he ordered his attendants to make\nmore haste this night in following her; but what diligence soever\nthey used she was too swift for them.\n\nThe next time the prince came by Maria Wood's hut, she did not fail\nto wish him again a 'good Carneval.'\n\n'To-morrow we have the last festino!' exclaimed he, with a touch of\nsadness, for he remembered it was the last of the happy evenings that\nhe could feel sure of seeing his fair unknown.\n\n'Ah! you must take me. But, what'll you say if I come to it in spite\nof you?' answered Maria Wood.\n\n'You incorrigible old woman!' exclaimed the prince; 'you provoke me\nso with your nonsense, I really cannot keep my hand off you;' and he\ngave her a slap.\n\nThe next night Maria Wood put on her dress of a dark blue, all covered\nwith gold embroidery and spangled with silver bells, and the parure\nmade to wear with it. The prince constituted her his partner for\nthe evening as before, nor did she seem to wish for any other, only\nwhen he wanted to learn from her whence she was, all she would say\nwas that she came from Slapland. [81] This night the prince told his\nservants to make more haste in following her, or he would discharge\nthem all. But they answered, 'It is useless to attempt the thing,\nas no mortal can equal her in swiftness.'\n\nAfter this, the prince fell ill of his disappointment, because he\nsaw no hope of hearing any more of the fair domino with whom he had\nspent three happy evenings, nor could any doctor find any remedy for\nhis sickness.\n\nThen Maria Wood sent him word, saying, 'Though the prince's physicians\ncannot help him, yet let him but take a cup of broth of my making,\nand he will immediately be healed.'\n\n'Nonsense! how can a cup of broth, or how can any medicament, help\nme!' exclaimed the prince. 'There is no cure for my ailment.'\n\nAgain Maria Wood sent the same message; but the prince said angrily,\n\n'Tell the silly old thing to hold her tongue; she doesn't know what\nshe's talking about.'\n\nBut again, the third time, Maria Wood sent to him, saying, 'Let the\nprince but take a cup of broth of my making, and he will immediately\nbe healed.'\n\nBy this time the prince was so weary that he did not take the trouble\nto refuse. The servants finding him so depressed began to fear that he\nwas sinking, and they called to Maria Wood to make her broth, because,\nthough they had little faith in her promise, they knew not what else\nto try. So Maria Wood made ready the cup of broth she had promised,\nand they put it down beside the prince.\n\nPresently the whole palace was roused; the prince had started up in\nbed, and was shouting,\n\n'Bring hither Maria Wood! Quick! Bring hither Maria Wood!'\n\nSo they ran and fetched Maria Wood, wondering what could have happened\nto bring about so great a change in the prince. But the truth was,\nthat Maria had put into the cup of broth the ring the prince had put\non her finger the first night of the feast, and when he began to take\nthe broth he found the ring with the spoon. When he saw the ring, he\nknew at once that Maria Wood could tell where to find his fair partner.\n\n'Wait a bit! there's plenty of time!' said Maria, when the servant\ncame to fetch her in all haste; and she waited to put on her dress\nof the colour of the noontide sky.\n\nThe prince was beside himself for joy when he saw her, and would have\nthe betrothal celebrated that very day.\n\n\n\n\nTHIRD VERSION.\n\nIn another version, on the princess refusing to do what the king\nwishes, he sends his servants to take her to a high tower he has out\nin the Campagna, and bids them carry her to the top and drop her down.\n\nThey take her there; but have not the heart to throw her down. In a\ncorner of the upper story of the tower they see a large case or press.\n\n'Suppose we shut her up in this great press, and leave her in the\nmiddle of the open Campagna, a long way off, to the providence of\nGod? It will be better than killing her,' says one of them.\n\n'We have nothing against the plan,' answered the others; 'provided\nwe take her so far that she cannot possibly come back to our king's\ncountry.'\n\nSo they locked her up in the great box, and carried the box a long,\nlong way out in the open Campagna, and left it there to the providence\nof God.\n\nThe poor princess was very glad to have escaped death; but she felt\nvery desolate in the box. As she was wondering what would happen to\nher, she was suddenly frightened by a great barking of dogs round the\nbox. A king's son had come by hunting, and his dogs had smelt human\nblood in the box.\n\n'Call the dogs off, and let's see what's in the box,' said the prince.\n\nSo they opened the box; and when they saw the princess inside, they\nsaw she was no common maiden, for she had a stomacher and earrings of\nbrilliants. So they brought her to the prince, and she pleased him,\nand he married her.\n\n\n\n[This way of introducing the box incident is more like Straparola's,\nand again connects this group with the former one in which I have\nhad occasion to mention it.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLA CANDELIERA. [82]\n\n\nThey say there was once a king who wanted to make his beautiful young\ndaughter marry an old, ugly king. Every time the king talked to his\ndaughter about this marriage, she cried and begged him to spare her;\nbut he only went on urging her the more, till at last she feared he\nwould command her to consent, so that she might not disobey; therefore\nat last she said: 'Before I marry this ugly old king to please you,\nyou must do something to please me.'\n\n'Oh, anything you like I will do,' replied he.\n\n'Then you must order for me,' she replied, 'a splendid candelabrum,\nten feet high, having a thick stem bigger than a man, and covered\nall over with all kinds of ornaments and devices in gold.'\n\n'That shall be done,' said the king; and he sent for the chief\ngoldsmith of the court, and told him to make such a candelabrum;\nand, as he was very desirous that the marriage should be celebrated\nwithout delay, he urged him to make the candelabrum with all despatch.\n\nIn a very short space of time the goldsmith brought home the\ncandelabrum, made according to the princess's description, and the king\nordered it to be taken into his daughter's apartment. The princess\nexpressed herself quite pleased with it, and the king was satisfied\nthat the marriage would now shortly take place.\n\nLate in the evening, however, the princess called her chamberlain to\nher, and said to him: 'This great awkward candlestick is not the sort\nof thing I wanted; it does not please me at all. To-morrow morning\nyou may take it and sell it, for I cannot bear the sight of it. You\nmay keep the price it sells for, whatever it is; but you had better\ntake it away early, before my father gets up.'\n\nThe chamberlain was very pleased to get so great a perquisite, and\ngot up very early to carry it away. The princess, however, had got\nup earlier, and had placed herself inside the candlestick; so that\nshe was carried out of the palace by the chamberlain, and thus she\nescaped the marriage she dreaded so much with the ugly old king.\n\nThe chamberlain, judging that the king would be very angry if\nhe heard of his selling the splendid candelabrum he had just had\nmade, did not venture to expose it for sale within the borders of\nhis dominions, but carried it to the capital of the neighbouring\nsovereign. Here he set it up in the market-place, and cried, 'Who'll\nbuy my candelabrum? Who'll buy my fine candelabrum?' When all the\npeople saw what a costly candelabrum it was, no one would offer for\nit. At last it got bruited about till it reached the ears of the son\nof the king of that country, that there was a man standing in the\nmarket-place, offering to sell the most splendid candelabrum that\never was seen; so he went out to look at it himself.\n\nNo sooner had the prince seen it than he determined that he must have\nit; so he bought it for the price of three hundred scudi, and sent\nhis servants to take it up into his apartment. After that, he went\nabout his affairs as usual. In the evening, however, he said to his\nbody-servant, 'As I am going to the play to-night, and shall be home\nlate, take my supper up into my own room.' And the servant did as he\ntold him.\n\nWhen the prince came home from the play, he was very much surprised\nto find his supper eaten and all the dishes and glasses disarranged.\n\n'What is the meaning of this?' he exclaimed, calling his servant to\nhim in a great fury. 'Is this the way you prepare supper for me?'\n\n'I don't know what to say, your Royal Highness,' stammered the man;\n'I saw the supper properly laid myself. How it got into this condition\nis more than I can say. With the leave of your Highness, I will order\nthe table to be relaid.'\n\nBut the prince was too angry to allow anything of the sort, and he\nwent supperless to bed.\n\nThe next night the same thing happened, and the prince in his\ndispleasure threatened to discharge his servant. The night after,\nhowever, his curiosity being greatly excited as he thought over the\ncircumstance, he called his servant, and said: 'Lay the supper before\nI go out, and I will lock the room and take the key in my pocket,\nand we will see if anyone gets in then.'\n\nBut, though this is what he said outloud, he determined to stay hidden\nwithin the room; and this is what he did. He had not remained there\nhidden very long when, lo and behold, the candelabrum, on which he\nhad never bestowed a thought since the moment he bought it, opened,\nand there walked out the most beautiful princess he had ever seen,\nwho sat down at the table, and began to sup with hearty appetite.\n\n'Welcome, welcome, fair princess!' exclaimed the astonished\nprince. 'You have heard me from within your hiding-place speaking\nwith indignation because my meal had been disturbed. How little did\nI imagine such an honour had been done me as that it should have\nserved you!' And he sat down beside her, and they finished the\nmeal together. When it was over, the princess went away into her\ncandelabrum again; and the next night the prince said to his servant:\n'In case anyone eats my supper while I am out, you had better bring\nup a double portion.' The next day he had not his supper only, but\nall his meals, brought into his apartment; nor did he ever leave it\nat all now, so happy was he in the society of the princess.\n\nThen the king and queen began to question about him, saying: 'What\nhas bereft our son of his senses, seeing that now he no more follows\nthe due occupations of his years, but sits all day apart in his room?'\n\nThen they called him to them and said: 'It is not well that you should\nsit thus all day long in your private apartments alone. It is time\nthat you should bethink yourself of taking a wife.'\n\nBut the prince answered, 'No other wife will I have but the\ncandelabrum.'\n\nWhen his parents heard him say this they said: 'Now there is no doubt\nthat he is mad;' and they spoke no more about his marrying.\n\nBut one day, the queen-mother coming into his apartment suddenly,\nfound the door of the candelabrum open, and the princess sitting\ntalking with the prince. Then she, too, was struck with her beauty,\nand said: 'If this is what you were thinking of when you said you would\nmarry the candelabrum, it was well judged.' And she took the princess\nby the hand and led her to the presence of the king. The king, too,\npraised her beauty, and she was given to the prince to be his wife.\n\nAnd the king her father, when he heard of the alliance, he too was\nright glad, and said he esteemed it far above that of the ugly old\nking he wanted her to have married at the first.\n\n\n\n[The mode of telling adopted by Roman narrators makes a way out of\nthe difficulty which this group of stories presents at first sight in\nthe king seeming to be fated by supernatural appointment to marry his\ndaughter. One says, 'the queen did not say he was to marry her the ring\nfitted, but he was not to marry any it did not fit.' The other says,\nthe slipper was a supernatural slipper, and would not fit anyone whom\nhe could marry. Whether this was a part of the traditional story or the\ngloss of the repeater, I do not pretend to decide. In the 'Candeliera,'\nthough similar in the main, this difficulty does not arise.\n\nMy Roman narrators seem to have been fonder of stories of maidens\nthan of youths. I have only one of the latter, and by no means an\nuncommon one, to set off against all the Stepmother stories of the\nformer. It, however, is the male counterpart of a prolific family\nin which the girls figure under similar circumstances. Grimm gives\nseveral, particularly 'Frau Holle,' p. 104. Dr. Dasent gives 'The two\nStepsisters.' In the Tales of Italian Tirol are two, 'C\u00f6lla d\u00f6ll\u00f6 doi\nsores' and 'Le due sorelle.' And among the Russian Tales, 'Frost,'\np. 214. It has also been connected with the large group in which\na rich brother (sometimes the elder, sometimes the younger) leaves\nhis poor brother to starve, and ultimately gets terribly punished\nfor enviously grasping at the poor one's subsequent good fortune:\nbut the structure of these is very different.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWO HUNCHBACKED BROTHERS. [83]\n\n\nThere was once a man who had one son, who married a widow who also\nhad one son, and both were hunchbacks. The wife took very good care\nof her own son, but the son of her husband she used to put to hard\nwork and gave him scarcely anything to eat. Her son, too, used to\nimitate his mother, and sadly ill-treat his stepbrother.\n\nAfter treating him ill for a long time, she at last sent him away\nfrom the house altogether.\n\nThe poor little hunchback wandered away without knowing where to go.\n\nOn, on, on he went, till at last he came to a lonely hut on a wide\nmoor. At his approach a whole host of little hunchbacks came out and\ndanced round him, chanting plaintively--\n\n\n        Sabbato!\n        Domenica!\n\n\na great number of times. At last our little hunchback felt his courage\nstirred, and, taking up the note of their chant, chimed in with--\n\n\n        Luned\u00ec!\n\n\nInstantly the dancing ceased, all the little hunchback dwarfs became\nfull-grown, well-formed men, and, what was better still, his own hump\nwas gone too, and he felt that he, too, was a well-grown lad.\n\n'Good people,' said our hunchback--now hunchbacked no more--'I thank\nyou much for ridding me of my hump and making me a well-grown lad. Give\nme now some work to do among you, and let me live with you.'\n\nBut the chief of the strange people answered him and said: 'This favour\nwe owe to you, not you to us; for it was your chiming in with the right\nword on the right note which destroyed the spell that held us all. And\nin testimony of our gratitude we give you further this little wand,\nand you will not need to work with us. Go back and live at home, and\nif ever anyone beats you as heretofore, you have only to say to it,\n\"At 'em, good stick!\" [84] and you will see what it will do for you.'\n\nThen all disappeared, and the boy went home.\n\n'So you've come back, have you?' said the stepmother. 'What, and\nwithout your hump, too! Where have you left that?'\n\nThen the good boy told her all that had happened, without hiding\nanything.\n\n'Do you hear that?' said the stepmother to her own son. 'Now go you\nand get rid of your hump in the same way.'\n\nSo the second hunchback went forth, and journeyed on till he came to\nthe lonely hut on the moor.\n\nA tribe of hunchbacks came out and danced round him, and sung--\n\n\n        Sabbato!\n        Domenica!\n        Luned\u00ec!\n\n\nto which the bad son of the stepmother added in his rough voice,\nall out of tune--\n\n\n        Marted\u00ec!\n\n\nImmediately all the hunchbacks came round him and gave him a drubbing,\nand the chief of them stuck on him a hump in front as well as behind.\n\nThus they sent him home to his mother.\n\nWhen his mother saw him come home in this plight, she turned upon\nthe stepson and abused him for having misled her son to injure him;\nand both mother and son set upon him and belaboured him after their\nwont. But he had only told the truth, without intention to deceive;\nand the stepmother's son had incurred the anger of the dwarfs by\nhis discordant addition to their chant. So the first hero took out\nhis wand and said, 'At 'em, good stick!' and the wand flew out of\nhis hand and administered on mother and son a sounder drubbing than\nthat they had themselves been administering. Ever after that he was\nable to live at home in peace, for everyone was afraid to injure him\nbecause of the power of his stick.\n\n\n\n[Next we have a group where a younger sister of three comes to\nsupernatural good fortune, without any previous envy or ill-treatment\non the part of her elders.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DARK KING. [85]\n\n\nThey say there was once a poor chicory-gatherer who went out every\nday with his wife and his three daughters to gather chicory to sell\nfor salad. Once, at Carneval time, he said, 'We must gather a fine\ngood lot to-day,' and they all dispersed themselves about trying to\ndo their best. The youngest daughter thus came to a place apart where\nthe chicory was of a much finer growth than any she had ever seen\nbefore. 'This will be grand!' she said to herself, as she prepared to\npull up the finest plant of it. But what was her surprise when with the\nplant, up came all the earth round it and a great hole only remained!\n\nWhen she peeped down into it timidly she was further surprised to\nfind it was no dark cave below as she had apprehended, but a bright\napartment handsomely furnished, and a most appetising meal spread out\non the table, there was, moreover, a commodious staircase reaching\nto the soil on which she stood, to descend by.\n\nAll fear was quickly overcome by the pleasant sight, and the girl\nat once prepared to descend, and, as no one appeared, to raise any\nobjection, she sat down quite boldly and partook of the good food. As\nsoon as she had finished eating, the tables were cleared away by\ninvisible hands, and, as she had nothing else to do she wandered\nabout the place looking at everything. After she had passed through\nseveral brilliant rooms she came to a passage, out of which led several\nstore-chambers, where was laid up a good supply of everything that\ncould serve in a house. In some there were provisions of all sorts,\nin some stuffs both for clothes and furniture.\n\n'There seems to be no one to own all these fine things,' said the\ngirl. 'What a boon they would be at home!' and she put together all\nthat would be most useful to her mother. But what was her dismay when\nshe went back to the dining-hall to find that the staircase by which\nshe had descended was no longer there!\n\nAt this sight she sat down and had a good cry, but by-and-by,\nsupper-time came, and with it an excellent supper, served in as\nmysterious a way as the dinner; and as a good supper was a rare\nenjoyment for her, she almost forgot her grief while discussing\nit. After that, invisible hands led her into a bedroom, where she\nwas gently undressed and put to bed without seeing anyone. In the\nmorning she was put in a bath and dressed by invisible hands, but\ndressed like a princess all in beautiful clothes.\n\nSo it all went on for at least three months; every luxury she could\nwish was provided without stint, but as she never saw anyone she\nbegan to get weary, and at last so weary that she could do nothing but\ncry. At the sound of her crying there came into the room a great black\nKing. [86] Though he was so dark and so big that she was frightened at\nthe sight of him, he spoke very kindly, and asked her why she cried\nso bitterly, and whether she was not provided with everything she\ncould desire. As she hardly knew herself why she cried, she did not\nknow what to answer him, but only went on whimpering. Then he said,\n'You have not seen half the extent of this palace yet or you would\nnot be so weary; here are the keys of all the locked rooms which you\nhave not been into yet. Amuse yourself as much as you like in going\nthrough them; they are all just like your own. Only into the room of\nwhich the key is not among these do not try to enter. In all the rest\ndo what you like.'\n\nThe next morning she took the keys and went into one of the locked\nrooms, and there she found so many things to surprise and amuse her\nthat she spent the whole day there, and the next day she examined\nanother, and so on for quite three months together, and the locked\nroom of which she had not the key she never thought of trying to\nenter. But all amusements tire at last, and at the end of this time\nshe was so melancholy that she could do nothing but cry. Then the\nDark King came again and asked her tenderly what she wanted.\n\n'I want nothing you can give me,' she replied this time. 'I am tired\nof being so long away from home. I want to go back home.'\n\n'But remember how badly you were clothed, and how poorly you fared,'\nreplied the Dark King.\n\n'Ah, I know it is much pleasanter here,' said the girl, 'for all\nthose matters, but one cannot do without seeing one's relations,\nnow and then at least.'\n\n'If you make such a point of it,' answered the Dark King, 'you shall\ngo home and see papa and mamma, but you will come back here. I only\nlet you go on that condition.'\n\nThe arrangement was accepted, and next day she was driven home in a\nfine coach with prancing horses and bright harness. Her appearance\nat home caused so much astonishment that there was hardly room for\npleasure, and even her own mother would hardly acknowledge her; as\nfor her sisters, they were so changed by her altered circumstances\nand so filled with jealousy they would scarcely speak to her. But when\nshe gave her mother a large pot of gold which the Dark King had given\nher for the purpose, their hearts were somewhat won back to her, and\nthey began to ask all manner of questions concerning what had befallen\nher during her absence. So much time had been lost at first, however,\nthat none was left for answering them, and, promising to try and come\nback to them soon, she drove away in her splendid coach.\n\nAnother three months passed away after this, and at the end of it\nshe was once more so weary, her tears and cries again called the Dark\nKing to her side.\n\nAgain she confided to him that her great grief was the wish to see\nher friends at home. She could not bear being so long without them. To\ncontent her once more he promised to let her drive home the next day;\nand the next day accordingly she went home.\n\nThis time she met with a better reception, and having brought out\nher pot of gold at her first arrival, everyone was full of anxiety\nto know how it came she had such riches at her disposal.\n\n'What that pot of money!' replied the girl, in a tone of\ndisparagement. 'That's nothing. You should see the beautiful things\nthat are scattered about in my new home, just like nothing at all;'\nand then she went on to describe the magnificence of the place,\ntill nothing would satisfy them but that they should go there too.\n\n'That's impossible,' she replied. 'I promised him not even to\nmention it.'\n\n'But if he were got rid of, then we might come,' replied the elder\nsisters.\n\n'What do you mean by \"got rid of\"?' asked the youngest.\n\n'Why, it is evident he is some bad sort of enchanter, whom it would\nbe well to rid the earth of. If you were to take this stiletto and\nput it into his breast when he is asleep, we might all come down\nthere and be happy together.'\n\n'Oh, I could never do that!'\n\n'Ah, you are so selfish you want to keep all for yourself. If you\nhad any spirit in you, you would burst open that locked door where,\nyou may depend the best of the treasure is concealed, and then put\nthis stiletto into the old enchanter, and call us all down to live\nwith you.'\n\nIt was in vain she protested she could not be so ungrateful and cruel;\nthey over-persuaded her with their arguments, and frightened her so\nwith their reproaches that she went back resolved to do their bidding.\n\nThe next morning she called up all her courage and pushed open\nthe closed door. Inside were a number of beautiful maidens weaving\nglittering raiment.\n\n'What are you doing?' asked the chicory-gatherer.\n\n'Making raiment for the bride of the Dark King against her espousals,'\nreplied the maidens.\n\nA little further on was a goldsmith and all his men working at all\nsorts of splendid ornaments filled with pearls and diamonds and rubies.\n\n'What are you doing?' asked the girl.\n\n'Making ornaments for the bride of the Dark King against her\nespousals,' replied the goldsmiths.\n\nA little further on was a little old hunchback sitting crosslegged,\nand patching an old torn coat with a heap of other worn-out clothes\nlying about him.\n\n'What are you doing?' asked the maiden.\n\n'Mending the rags for the girl to go away in who was to have been\nthe bride of the Dark King,' replied the little old hunchback.\n\nBeyond the room where this was going on was a passage, and at the\nend of this a door, which she also pushed open. It gave entrance to\na room where, on a bed, the Dark King lay asleep.\n\n'This is the time to apply the stiletto my sisters gave me,' thought\nthe maiden. 'I shall never have so good a chance again. They said he\nwas a horrid old enchanter; let me see if he looks like one.'\n\nSo saying she took one of the tapers from a golden bracket and held\nit near his face. It was true enough; his skin was black, his hair\nwas grizly and rough, his features crabbed and forbidding.\n\n'They're right, there's no doubt. It were better the earth were rid\nof him, as they say,' she said within herself; and, steeling herself\nwith this reflection, she plunged the knife into his breast.\n\nBut as she wielded the weapon with the right hand, the left, in\nwhich she held the lighted taper, wavered, and some of the scalding\nwax fell on the forehead of the Dark King. The dropping of the wax\n[87] woke him; and when he saw the blood flowing from his breast,\nand perceived what she had done, he said sadly,\n\n'Why have you done this? I meant well by you and really loved you,\nand thought if I fulfilled all you desire, you would in time have\nloved me. But it is over now. You must leave this place, and go back\nto be again what you were before.'\n\nThen he called servants, and bade them dress her again in her poor\nchicory-gatherer's dress, and send her up to earth again; and it was\ndone. But as they were about to lead her away, he said again,\n\n'Yet one thing I will do. Take these three hairs; and if ever you\nare in dire distress and peril of life with none to help, burn them,\nand I will come to deliver you.'\n\nThen they took her back to the dining-hall, where the staircase was\nseen as at the first, and when they touched the ceiling, it opened,\nand they pushed her through the opening, and she found herself in the\nplace where she had been picking chicory on the day that she first\nfound the Dark King's palace.\n\nOnly as they were leading her along, she had considered that it might\nbe dangerous for her, a young girl, to be wandering about the face\nof the country alone, and she had, therefore, begged the servants to\ngive her a man's clothes instead of her own; and they gave her the\nworn-out clothes that she had seen the little old hunchback sitting\ncrosslegged to mend.\n\nWhen she found herself on the chicory-bed it was in the cold of\nthe early morning, and she set off walking towards her parents'\ncottage. It was about midday when she arrived, and all the family\nwere taking their meal. Poor as it was, it looked very tempting to\nher who had tasted nothing all the morning.\n\n'Who are you?' cried the mother, as she came up to the door.\n\n'I'm your own child, your youngest daughter. Don't you know me?' cried\nthe forlorn girl in alarm.\n\n'A likely joke!' laughed out the mother; 'my daughter comes to see\nme in a gilded coach with prancing horses!'\n\n'Had you asked for a bit of bread in the honest character of a beggar,'\npursued the father, 'poor as I am, I would never have refused your\nweary, woebegone looks; but to attempt to deceive with such a falsehood\nis not to be tolerated;' and he rose up, and drove the poor child away.\n\nProtests were vain, for no one recognised her under her disguise.\n\nMournful and hopeless, she wandered away. On, on, on, she went, till\nat last she came to a palace in a great city, and in the stables were\na number of grooms and their helpers rubbing down horses.\n\n'Wouldn't there be a place for me among all these boys?' asked the\nlittle chicory-gatherer, plaintively. 'I, too, could learn to rub\ndown a horse if you taught me.'\n\n'Well, you don't look hardly strong enough to rub down a horse, my\nlad,' answered the head-groom; 'but you seem a civil-spoken sort of\nchap, so you may come in; I dare say we can find some sort of work\nfor you.'\n\nSo she went into the stable-yard, and helped the grooms of the palace.\n\nBut every day the queen stood at a window of the palace where she\ncould watch the fair stable-boy, and at last she sent and called the\nhead-groom, and said to him, 'What are you doing with that new boy\nin the stable-yard?'\n\nThe head-groom said, 'Please your Majesty he came and begged for work,\nand we took him to help.'\n\nThen the queen said, 'He is not fit for that sort of work, send him\nto me.'\n\nSo the chicory-gatherer was sent up to the queen, and the queen gave\nher the post of master of the palace, and appointed a fine suite of\napartments and a dress becoming the rank, and was never happy unless\nshe had this new master of the palace with her.\n\nNow the king was gone to the wars, and had been a long time absent. One\nday the queen said to the master of the palace that very likely the\nking would not come back, so that it would be better they should marry.\n\nThen the poor chicory-gatherer was sadly afraid that if the queen\ndiscovered that she was a woman she would lose her fine place at the\npalace, and become a poor beggar again without a home; so she said\nnothing of this, but only reasoned with the queen that it was better\nto wait and see if the king did not come home. But as she continued\nsaying this, and at the same time never showed any wish that the\nking might not come back, or that the marriage might take place,\nthe queen grew sorely offended, and swore she would be avenged.\n\nNot long after, the king really did come back, covered with glory,\nfrom the wars. Now was the time for the queen to take her revenge.\n\nChoosing her opportunity, therefore, at the moment when the king\nwas rejoicing that he had been permitted to come back to her again,\nwith hypocritical tears she said,\n\n'It is no small mercy, indeed, that your Majesty has found me again\nhere as I am, for it had well-nigh been a very different case.'\n\nThe king was instantly filled with burning indignation, and asked\nher further what her words meant.\n\n'They mean,' replied the queen, 'that the master of the palace,\non whom I had bestowed the office only because he seemed so simple,\nas you too must say he looks, presumed on my favour, and would have\nme marry him, urging that peradventure the king, who had been so long\nabsent at the wars, might never return.'\n\nThe king started to his feet at the words, placing his hand upon his\nsword in token of his wrath; but the queen went on:\n\n'And when he found that I would not listen to his suit, he dared to\nassume a tone of command, and would have compelled me to consent;\nso that I had to call forth all my courage, and determination,\nand dignity, to keep him back; and had the King's Majesty not been\ndirected back to the palace as soon as he was, who knows where it\nmight have ended!'\n\nIt needed no more. The king ordered the master of the palace to be\ninstantly thrown into prison, and appointed the next day for him to\nbe beheaded.\n\nThe chicory-gatherer was ready enough now to protest that she was a\nwoman. But it helped nothing; they only laughed. And who could stand\nagainst the word of the queen?\n\nNext day, accordingly, the scaffold was raised, and the master of\nthe palace was brought forth to be beheaded, the king and the queen,\nand all the court, being present.\n\nWhen the chicory-gatherer, therefore, found herself in dire need\nand peril of life, she took out one of the hairs the Dark King had\ngiven her, and burnt it in the flame of a torch. Instantly there\nwas a distant roaring sound as of a tramp of troops and the roll\nof drums. Everyone started at the sound, and the executioner stayed\nhis hand.\n\nThen the maiden burnt the second hair, and instantly a vast army\nsurrounded the whole place; round the palace they marched and up to\nthe scaffold, and so to the very throne of the king. The king had now\nsomething to think of besides giving the signal for the execution,\nand the headsman stayed his hand.\n\nThen the maiden burnt the third hair, and instantly the Dark King\nhimself appeared upon the scene, clothed in shining armour, and\nfearful in majesty and might. And he said to the king,\n\n'Who are you that you have given over my wife to the executioner?'\n\nAnd the king said,\n\n'Who is thy wife that I should give her to the executioner?'\n\nThe Dark King, taking the master of the palace by the hand, said,\n\n'This is my wife. Touch her who dares!'\n\nThen the king knew that it had been true when the master of the\npalace had alleged that she was not guilty of the charge the queen\nhad brought against her, being a woman; and seeing clearly what had\nbeen the malice of the queen, he ordered the executioner to behead\nher instead, but the chicory-gatherer he gave up to the Dark King.\n\nThen the Dark King said to the chicory-gatherer,\n\n'I came at your bidding to defend you, and I said you were my wife\nto save your life; but whether you will be my wife or not depends on\nyou. It is for you to say whether you will or not.'\n\nThen the maiden answered,\n\n'You have been all goodness to me; ungrateful indeed should I be did\nI not, as I now do, say \"yes.\"'\n\nAs soon as she said 'yes,' the earth shook, and she was no longer\nstanding on a scaffold, but before an altar in a splendid cathedral,\nsurrounded by a populous and flourishing city. By her side stood\nthe Black King, but black no longer. He was now a most beautiful\nprince; for with all his kingdom he had been under enchantment, and\nthe condition of his release had been that a fair maiden should give\nher free consent to marry him. [88]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMONSU MOSTRO. [89]\n\n\nThere was a father who had three daughters, and when all trades failed,\nhe said he would go and gather chicory, and called his daughters to\ngo with him. But it was a wet day, and they begged to be left at home;\nso he went alone.\n\nHe went out into the fields till he came to a place where was the\nbiggest plant of chicory that ever was seen. 'That will do for me,'\nhe said, and began to pull it up. Up it came by the root and left a\nhole in the ground, and a voice came up through the hole, and said,\n'Who's there?'\n\n'Friends!' [90] answered the chicory-gatherer; and then One sprang\nup through the hole on to the ground. This was Monsu Mostro. The poor\nman was rather frightened at his aspect, but he dared say nothing.\n\n'Come along with me,' said Monsu Mostro and the poor man followed till\nthey came to a palace in the Campagna, where he gave him a horse to\nride home upon and a heap of money. 'I give you all this,' said Monsu\nMostro; 'but you must give me one of your daughters in return.' The\npoor man was too frightened to refuse, so he said he would.\n\nWhen he came home all his three daughters came jumping round him with\ndelight at seeing him come home riding on horseback. 'Papa! papa! [91]\nwhere have you been?' And when they saw what a lot of money he had\nbrought home, their questions increased tenfold. But, in spite of his\nriches, the chicory-gatherer did not seem in good spirits. He did not\nknow how to announce that he had to take one of his daughters to Monsu\nMostro, and so he was very slow at answering their inquiries. It was\nnot till next morning that he made up his mind to break this dreadful\nmatter; and then, when the time had come for him to go forth, and there\nwas no putting it off any longer, he made a great effort and said at\nlast, 'I have found a husband for one of you; which shall it be?'\n\n'Not I!' said the eldest; 'I'm not going to marry a husband whom I\nhaven't seen. Oibo!'\n\n'Not I!' said the second. 'I'm not going to marry a husband whom I\nhaven't seen. Oibo!'\n\n'Take me, papa! take me! I'll go!' said the youngest. So the father\nremounted the horse, and put her behind him. Thus they arrived at\nthe palace of Monsu Mostro, and knocked.\n\n'Who's there?' said a voice within.\n\n'Friends!' answered the father; and they were shown in.\n\n'Here's my daughter, as I promised,' said the father.\n\n'All right!' said Monsu Mostro; and, giving him another large sum of\nmoney, sent him away.\n\nWhen the father was gone, he said to the girl, 'I'm not going to\nmarry you as your father thought. I want you to do the service of the\nhouse. But mind when there is anyone here you always call me \"papa.\"'\n\nThe girl promised to do as she was bid, and soon after there was\na knock at the door, and some hunters who had got belated in the\nCampagna came to seek hospitality.\n\n'Let them in, set supper before them; and give them a change of\nclothes,' said Monsu Mostro; and the girl did as she was bid. While\nthey were at supper one of the huntsmen kept looking at her, for\nshe was a beautiful girl, and afterwards he asked her if she would\nmarry him, for he was the king's son. 'Oh, shouldn't I like it!' said\nthe girl, 'but you must ask papa.' The prince asked Monsu Mostro,\nand as he made no objection, he went and fetched a great cort\u00e8ge,\nand took her to the palace to marry her. As she was going away Monsu\nMostro gave her a comb, wrapped up in paper, and said, 'Take care of\nthis, and don't forget you have got it.' The girl was too full of her\nhappiness to pay much heed, but she put it in her bosom and went away.\n\nAs she drove along, a pair of horns like a cow's began to grow on her\nhead, and they had already attained a considerable size before she\narrived at the royal palace. The queen was horrified at her appearance,\nand refused to let her come in. 'How can it possibly be that such a\nbeautiful girl should have all of a sudden got a pair of horns?' said\nthe prince. But it was no use saying anything, for there were the\nhorns, and the queen was determined that she should not be admitted\ninto the royal palace.\n\nThe prince was very much distressed, and would on no account let\nher be turned adrift as the queen wished, but sent her to a house in\nthe Campagna, where he sent a servant every day to ask how she was,\nand to take her some present, but also to observe if the horns had\nnot perchance gone away as suddenly as they had come. But, instead\nof going away, they went on growing every day bigger.\n\nIn the meantime the queen sent a servant out with three little\npuppy-dogs in a basket, saying that whoever trained them best should\nmarry the prince. One of these the servant brought to her, and the\ntwo others to two other girls, who were princesses, either of whom\nthe queen would have preferred her son should marry.\n\n'Train puppy-dogs!' said each of the other two girls. 'I know nothing\nabout training puppy-dogs! What can I do with them!' and they let\nthem get into all manner of bad habits.\n\nBut she put hers in a basket and went back to the palace of Monsu\nMostro, and knocked.\n\n'Who's there?' said Monsu Mostro.\n\n'It's I!' [92] answered she; and then she told him all that had\nbefallen her, and showed him the puppy-dog in the basket. He looked\nat it for a moment, but would not let her in, and only cried out,\n'Go along! you ugly horned thing!' [93]\n\nShe went away crying; but having lifted up the cloth and peeped at\nthe puppy-dog, she felt reassured, and sent it back by a servant to\nthe queen.\n\nWhen the queen uncovered the basket a beautiful little dog sprang\nout all of solid gold, yet it leaped about and performed all manner\nof tricks just as if it had been a real dog.\n\nThe prince was triumphant when he saw that her dog was so much better\nthan the other two; but the queen was indignant, and said, 'It is no\ndog at all, that gold thing!' and she would not allow that the girl\nhad won the trial.\n\nAfter that the queen sent a servant out with three pounds of flax,\nand said that whoever could spin it best should marry the prince.\n\n'What do I know about spinning!' said each of the other two; and they\nlet the flax lie without touching it.\n\nBut she took hers in a basket and went to the palace of Monsu Mostro,\nand knocked.\n\n'Who's there?' asked he.\n\n'It's I!' she replied in her doleful voice, and told him her new\ndifficulty. Monsu Mostro looked at the flax, but refused to admit\nher, and saying, 'Away with you, you horned wretch!' shut the door\nagainst her.\n\nThis basket, too, she sent by a servant to the queen, and when the\nqueen opened it she found it full of gold thread.\n\n'You must allow she has done better than the others this time!' said\nthe prince.\n\n'No! it is as bad as before,' answered the queen; 'it is not\nnatural! It won't do for me!'\n\n'After that the queen sent out a notice that whichever of them had\nher hair growing down to her heels should marry the prince.\n\n'My hair does not reach down to my waist,' said each of the other\ntwo. 'How can I make it grow down to my heels?'\n\nBut she went to the palace of Monsu Mostro, and knocked.\n\n'Who's there?' asked he.\n\n'It is I!' she replied, as dolefully as before, and told him what\nwas required of her now.\n\n'You see now what it is to have paid no attention to what I told\nyou,' answered Monsu Mostro. 'I told you not to forget the comb I\ngave you. If you had not forgotten that none of this would have\nhappened. That comb is your remedy now;' and with that he shut\nthe door.\n\nBut she went home and combed her hair with the comb he had given her;\nand not only the horns went away, but her hair grew down quite to\nher heels and swept the ground. But the other two were jealous when\nthey saw that she had beaten them in all three trials, and they came\nto her to ask how she made her hair grow, and she sent them to the\npalace of Monsu Mostro to ask.\n\nBut as they only came out of jealousy, he told them to make themselves\ntwo pitch nightcaps and sleep in them; and when they got up in the\nmorning, instead of having longer hair, all the hair they had came off.\n\nBut she was at length given to the prince, and they were married amid\ngreat rejoicing.\n\n\n\n[The two preceding stories represent the Roman contribution to\nthe stories of visits to the underground world and the Bluebeard\ngroup. I have others (particularly one called 'Il Cavolo d' Oro',\nthe 'Golden Cabbage') more like the general run of them. The two I\nhave selected have this difference, that in neither instance does\nthe subterranean ruler represent the Devil. 'Monsu Mostro,' is most\ndisinterested in his generosity. As usual with the Roman versions,\nall that is terrible is eliminated. For other versions, see Ralston,\npp. 98-100; and for a somewhat similar story, the 'Water Snake,'\np. 116. Much in the Norse, 'East of the Sun and West of the Moon,'\nis like the 'R\u00e8 Moro;' so is 'The Old Dame and her Hen,' though the\nlater details of that story are more like the Tirolean version, which\nI have given in 'Laxehale's Wives,' in 'Household Stories from the\nLand of Hofer.' The German version given as 'Fitchers Vogel,' Grimm,\np. 177, has more of the horrid element than any of the others. In the\nversion of 'T\u00fcnd\u00e9r Ilona' given in Graf Mailath's 'Magyarische Sagen'\n(a rather different version from that told me at Pesth, which I have\ngiven at p. 20-1), Prince Argilus loses his bride and her kingdom,\nand has to begin all his labours over again, through looking into\na closed chamber which T\u00fcnd\u00e9r Ilona had bid him not to open in her\nabsence. But heroic action abounds in the Hungarian tales, just as\nit is wanting in the Roman ones, and in this, and in many details,\nparticularly in the enthusiasm for magic horses, they are singularly\nlike the Gaelic.\n\nThe 'R\u00e8 Moro' is perhaps nearer 'Beauty and the Beast' than\n'Bluebeard.' I had a version of this given me in the following form,\nunder the title of 'The Enchanted Rose-Tree.'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENCHANTED ROSE-TREE. [94]\n\n\nThey say there was once a merchant who, when he was going out to buy\nrare merchandise, asked his daughter what rich present he should\nbring home to her. She, however, would hear of nothing but only a\nsimple rose-tree.\n\n'That,' said her father, 'is too easy. However, as you are bent on\nhaving a rose-tree, you shall have the most beautiful rose-tree I\ncan find in all my travels.'\n\nIn all his travels, however, he met with no rose-tree that he deemed\nchoice enough. But one day, when he was walking outside the walls of\nhis own city, he came to a garden which he had never observed before,\nfilled with all manner of beautiful flowers.\n\n'This is a wonderful garden indeed,' said the merchant to himself; 'I\nnever saw it before, and yet these luxuriant plants seem to have many\nyears' growth in them. There must be something wonderful about them,\nso this is just the place to look for my daughter's rose-tree.' In\nhe went therefore to look for the rose-tree.\n\nIn the midst of the garden was a casino, the door of which stood open;\nwhen he went in he found a banquet spread with the choicest dishes;\nand though he saw no one, a kind voice invited him to sit down and\nenjoy himself. So he sat down to the banquet, and very much he did\nenjoy himself, for there was everything he could desire. [95]\n\nWhen he had well eaten and drunk, he bethought him to go out again\ninto the garden and seek a choice rose-tree.\n\n'As the banquet was free,' he thought to himself, 'I suppose the\nflowers are free too.'\n\nSo he selected what seemed to him the choicest rose of all; while\nit had petals of the richest red in the world, within it was all\nshining gold, and the leaves too were overlaid with shining gold. This\nrose-tree, therefore, he proceeded to root up.\n\nA peal of thunder attended the attempt, and with a noise of rushing\nwinds and waters a hideous monster [96] suddenly appeared before him.\n\n'How dare you root up my rose-trees?' said the monster; 'was it not\nenough that I gave you my best hospitality freely? Must you also rob\nme of my flowers, which are as my life to me? Now you must die!'\n\nThe merchant excused himself as best he could, saying it was the very\nfreedom of the hospitality which had emboldened him to take the rose,\nand that he had only ventured to take it because he had promised the\nprettiest rose-tree he could find to his daughter.\n\n'Your daughter, say you?' replied the monster. 'If there is a daughter\nin the case perhaps I may forgive you; but only on condition that\nyou bring her hither to me within three days' time.'\n\nThe father went home sad at heart, but within three days he kept his\npromise of taking his daughter to the garden. The monster received\nthem very kindly, and gave them the casino to live in, where they were\nwell fed and lodged. At the end of eight days, however, a voice came\nto the father and told him he must depart; and when he hesitated to\nleave his daughter alone he was taken by invisible agency and turned\nout of the garden.\n\nThe monster now often came and talked to the daughter, and he was\nso gentle and so kind that she began quite to like him. One day she\nasked him to let her go home and see her friends, and he, who refused\nher nothing, let her go; but begged her to promise solemnly she would\ncome back at the end of eight days, 'for if you are away longer than\nthat,' he added, 'I know I shall die of despair.' Then he gave her\na mirror into which she could look and see how he was.\n\nThus she went home, and the time passed quickly away, and eight days\nwere gone and she had not thought of returning. Then by accident the\nmirror came under her hand, and, looking into it, she saw the monster\nstretched on the ground as if at the point of death. The sight filled\nher with compunction, and she hurried back with her best speed.\n\nArrived at the garden, she found the monster just as she had seen him\nin the mirror. At sight of her he revived, and soon became so much\nbetter that she was much touched when she saw how deeply he cared\nfor her.\n\n'And were you really so bad only because I went away?' she asked.\n\n'No, not only because you went away, for it was right you should go\nand see your parents; but because I began to fear you would never\ncome back, and if you had never come back I should quite have died.'\n\n'And now you are all right again?'\n\n'Yes, now you are here I am quite happy; that is, I should be quite\nhappy if you would promise always to remain and never go away any\nmore.'\n\nThen when she saw how earnest and sincere he was in wishing her to\nstay, she gave her consent never to leave him more.\n\nNo sooner had she spoken the promise than in the twinkling of an eye\nall was changed. The monster became a handsome prince, the casino a\npalace, the garden a flourishing country, and each several rose-tree\na city. For the prince had been enchanted by an enemy, and had to\nremain transformed as a monster till he should be redeemed by the\nlove of a maiden.\n\n\n\n[The three brothers who occupy so large a space in the household tales\nof other countries, do not seem to be popular favourites in Rome. I\nhave come across them but seldom. There are plenty of them in the\n'Norse Tales,' under the name of 'Boots' for the unexpectedly doughty\nbrother. The Spanish romance I have given as 'Simple Johnny and the\nSpell-bound Princesses,' in 'Patra\u00f1as,' makes him a knight. In the\nSiddhi K\u00fcr story of 'How the Schimnu Khan was Slain,' it is three\nhired companions (as in some other versions), who betray the hero;\nand in all but this (which is its link with the usual Three-brother\nstories), it is a remarkably close repetition of the details of another\nSpanish romance, which I have given as 'The Ill-tempered Princess,'\nand this, in its turn, is like the Tirolean 'Laxhale's Wives' and\nthe Roman 'Diavolo che prese moglie.' Compare, further, a number of\ninstances collected by Mr. Ralston, pp. 72-80, and 260-7. In many\nparts of Tirol you meet a Three-brother story different from any of\nthese. Three brothers go out to hunt chamois on a Sunday morning,\nand get so excited with the sport that they make themselves too\nlate to hear Mass, and get turned into stone, or some other dreadful\npunishment. The younger brother, who has all along urged them to go\ndown, but has been overruled by the others, is involved in the same\npunishment. There are three peaks on the Knie Pass, leading from\nTirol to Salzburg, called 'The Three Brothers,' from such a legend.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSCIOCCOLONE. [97]\n\n\nOnce upon a time there were three brothers, who were woodmen; their\nemployment was not one which required great skill, and they were\nnone of them very clever, but the youngest was the least brilliant\nof all. So simple was he that all the neighbours, and his very\nbrothers--albeit they were not so very superior in intelligence\nthemselves--gave him the nickname of 'Scioccolone,' the great\nsimpleton, and accordingly Scioccolone he was called wherever he went.\n\nEvery day these three brothers went out into the woods to their\nwork, and every evening they all came home, each staggering under\nhis load of wood, which he carried to the dealer who paid them for\ntheir toil: thus one day of labour passed away just like another in\nall respects. So it went on for years.\n\nNevertheless, one day came at last which was not at all like the\nothers, and if all days were like it the world would be quite upside\ndown, or be at least a very different world from what it is. Oim\u00e8! that\nsuch days never occur now at all! Basta, this is what happened. It\nwas in the noontide heat of a very hot day, the three simple brothers\ncommitted the imprudence of going out of the shelter of the woods\ninto the wold beyond, and there, lying on the grass in the severest\nblaze of the burning sun, they saw three beautiful peasant girls\nlying fast asleep.\n\n'Only look at those silly girls sleeping in the full blaze of the\nsun!' cried the eldest brother.\n\n'They'll get bad in their heads in this heat,' said the second.\n\nBut Scioccolone said: 'Shall we not get some sticks and boughs,\nand make a little shed to shelter them?'\n\n'Just like one of Scioccolone's fine ideas!' laughed the eldest\nbrother scornfully.\n\n'Well done, Scioccolone! That's the best thing you've thought of this\nlong while. And who will build a shed over us while we're building\na shed for the girls, I should like to know?' said the second.\n\nBut Scioccolone said: 'We can't leave them there like that; they will\nbe burnt to death. If you won't help me I must build the shed alone.'\n\n'A wise resolve, and worthy of Scioccolone!' scoffed the eldest\nbrother.\n\n'Good-bye, Scioccolone!' cried the second, as the two elder brothers\nwalked away together. 'Good-bye for ever! I don't expect ever to see\nyou alive again, of course.'\n\nAnd they never did see him again, but what it was that happened to\nhim you shall hear.\n\nWithout waiting to find a retort to his brothers' gibes, Scioccolone\nset to work to fell four stout young saplings, and to set them up as\nsupports of his shed in four holes he had previously scooped with the\naid of his bill-hook; then he rammed them in with wedges, which he also\nhad to cut and shape. After this he cut four large bushy branches,\nwhich he tied to the uprights with the cord he used for tying up his\nfaggots of logs; and as the shade of these was scarcely close enough\nto keep out all the fierce rays of the sun, he went back to the wood\nand collected all the large broad leaves he could find, and came back\nand spread them out over his leafy roof. All this was very hard labour\nindeed when performed under the dreaded sun, and just in the hours\nwhen men do no work; yet so beautiful were the three maidens that,\nwhen at last he had completed his task, he could not tear himself away\nfrom them to go and seek repose in the shade of the wood, but he must\nneeds continue standing in the full sun gazing at them open-mouthed.\n\nAt last the three beautiful maidens awoke, and when they saw what a\nfragrant shade had refreshed their slumbers they began pouring out\ntheir gratitude to their devoted benefactor.\n\nDo not run at hasty conclusions, however, and imagine that of course\nthe three beautiful maidens fell in love on the spot with Scioccolone,\nand he had only to pick and choose which of them he would have to\nmake him happy as his wife. A very proper ending, you say, for a\nfairy tale. It was not so, however. Scioccolone looked anything but\nattractive just then. His meaningless features and uncouth, clownish\ngait were never at any time likely to inspire the fair maidens with\nsudden affection; but just then, after his running hither and thither,\nhis felling, digging, and hammering in the heat of the day, his face\nhad acquired a tint which made it look rougher and redder and more\nrepulsive than anyone ever wore before.\n\nBesides this, the three maidens were fairies, who had taken the form\n[98] of beautiful peasant girls for some reason of their own.\n\nBut neither did they leave his good deed unrewarded. By no means. Each\nof the three declared she would give him such a precious gift that he\nshould own to his last hour that they were not ungrateful. So they\nsat and thought what great gift they could think of which should be\ncalculated to make him very happy indeed.\n\nAt last the first of the three got up and exclaimed that she had\nthought of her gift, and she did not think anyone could give him a\ngreater one; for she would promise him he should one day be a king.\n\nWasn't that a fine gift!\n\nScioccolone, however, did not think so. The idea of his being a\nking! Simple as he was, he could see the incongruity of the idea,\nand the embarrassment of the situation. How should he the poor clown,\neverybody's laughingstock, become a king? and if he did, kingship\nhad no attractions for him.\n\nHe was too kind-hearted, however, to say anything in disparagement\nof the well-meant promise, and too straightforward to assume a show\nof gratitude he did not feel; so after the first little burst of\nhilarity which he was not sufficiently master of himself to suppress,\nhe remained standing open-mouthed after his awkward manner.\n\nThen the second fairy addressed him and said:--\n\n'I see you don't quite like my sister's gift; but you may be sure\nshe would not have promised it if it had not been a good gift,\nafter you have been so kind to us; and when it comes true, it will\nsomehow all turn out very nice and right. But now, meantime, that I\nmay not similarly disappoint you with my gift by choosing it for you,\nI shall let you choose it for yourself; so say, what shall it be?'\n\nScioccolone was almost as much embarrassed with the second fairy's\npermission of choosing for himself as he had been with the first\nfairy's choice for him. First he grinned, and then he twisted his\ngreat awkward mouth about, and then he grinned again, till, at last,\nashamed of keeping the fairies waiting so long for his answer, he said,\nwith another grin:--\n\n'Well, to tell you what I should really like, it would be that when\nI have finished making up my faggot of logs this evening, instead of\nhaving to stagger home carrying it, it should roll along by itself,\nand then I get astride of it, and that it should carry me.'\n\n'That would be fine!' he added, and he grinned again as he thought\nof the fun it would be to be carried home by the load of logs instead\nof carrying the load as he had been wont.\n\n'Certainly! That wish is granted,' replied the second fairy\nreadily. 'You will find it all happen just as you have described.'\n\nThen the third fairy came forward and said:--\n\n'And now choose; what shall my gift be? You have only to ask for\nwhatever you like and you shall have it.'\n\nSuch a heap of wishes rose up in Scioccolone's imagination at this\nannouncement, that he could not make up his mind which to select; as\nfast as he fixed on one thing, he remembered it would be incomplete\nwithout some other gift, and as he went on trying to find some one wish\nthat should be as comprehensive as possible, he suddenly blurted out--\n\n'Promise me that whatever I wish may come true; that'll be the best\ngift; and so if I forget a thing one moment I can wish for it the\nnext. That'll be the best gift to be sure!'\n\n'Granted!' said the third fairy. 'You have only to wish for anything\nand you will find you get it immediately, whatever it is.'\n\nThe fairies then took leave and went their way, and Scioccolone was\nreminded by the lengthening shades that it was time he betook himself\nto complete his day's work. Scarcely succeeding in collecting his\nthoughts, so dazzled and bewildered was he by the late supernatural\nconversation, he yet found his way back to the spot where he had been\nfelling wood.\n\n'Oh, dear! how tired I am!' he said within himself as he walked\nalong. 'How I wish the wood was all felled and the faggots tied\nup!' and though he said this mechanically as he might have said it\nany other day of his life, without thinking of the fairy's promise,\nwhich was, indeed, too vast for him to put it consciously to such\na practical test then, full of astonishment as he was, yet when he\ngot back to his working-place the wood was felled and laid in order,\nand tied into a faggot in the best manner.\n\n'Well to be sure!' soliloquised Scioccolone. 'The girls have kept\ntheir promise indeed! This is just exactly what I wished. And now,\nlet's see what else did I wish? Oh, yes; that if I got astride on\nthe faggot it should roll along by itself and carry me with it;\nlet's see if that'll come true too!'\n\nWith that he got astride on the faggot, and sure enough the faggot\nmoved on all by itself, and carried Scioccolone along with it\npleasantly enough.\n\nOnly there was one thing Scioccolone had forgotten to ask for, and\nthat was power to guide the faggot; and now, though it took a direction\nquite contrary to that of his homeward way, he had no means of inducing\nit to change its tack. After some time spent in fruitless efforts in\nschooling his unruly mount, Scioccolone began to reason with himself.\n\n'After all, it does not much matter about going home. I only get\nlaughed at and called \"Scioccolone.\" Maybe in some other place they\nmay be better, and as the faggot is acting under the orders of my\nbenefactress, it will doubtless all be for the best.'\n\nSo he committed himself to the faggot to take him wherever it would. On\nwent the faggot surely and steadily, as if quite conscious where it\nhad to go; and thus, before nightfall, it came to a great city where\nwere many people, who all came out to see the wonder of the faggot\nof logs moving along by itself, and a man riding on it.\n\nIn this city was a king, who lived in a palace with an only\ndaughter. Now this daughter had never been known to laugh. What pains\nsoever the king her father took to divert her were all unavailing;\nnothing brought a smile to her lips.\n\nNow, however, when all the people ran to the windows to see a man\nriding on a faggot, the king's daughter ran to look out too; and\nwhen she saw the faggot moving by itself, and the uncouth figure of\nScioccolone sitting on it, and heard all the people laughing at the\nsight, then the king's daughter laughed too; laughed for the first\ntime in her life.\n\nBut Scioccolone passing under the palace, heard her clear and merry\nlaugh resounding above the laughter of all the people, he looked up\nand saw her, and when he saw her looking so bright and fair he said\nwithin himself:--\n\n'Now, if ever the fairy's power of wishing is to be of use to me, I\nwish that I might have a little son, and that the beautiful princess\nshould be the mother.' But he did not think of wishing to stop there\nthat he might look at her, so the faggot carried him past the palace\nand past all the houses into the outskirts of the city, till he got\ntired and weary, and just then passing a wood merchant's yard, the\nthought rose to his lips,--\n\n'I wish that wood merchant would buy this faggot of me!'\n\nImmediately the wood merchant came out and offered to buy the faggot,\nand as it was such a wonderful faggot, that he thought Scioccolone\nwould never consent to sell it, he offered him such a high price that\nScioccolone had enough to live on like a prince for a year.\n\nAfter a time there was again a great stir in the city, everyone\nwas abroad in the streets whispering and consulting. To the king's\ndaughter was born a little son, and no one knew who the father was,\nnot even the princess herself. Then the king sent for all the men\nin the city, and brought them to the infant, and said, 'Is this your\nfather?' but the babe said 'No!' to them all.\n\nLast of all, Scioccolone was brought, and when the king took him up to\nthe babe and said, 'Is this your father?' the babe rose joyfully from\nits cradle and said, 'Yes; that is my father!' When the king heard this\nand saw what a rough ugly clown Scioccolone was, he was very angry\nwith his daughter, and said she must marry him and go away for ever\nfrom the palace. It was all in vain that the princess protested she\nhad never seen him but for one moment from the top of the palace. The\nbabe protested quite positively that he was his father; so the king\nhad them married, and sent them away from the palace for ever; and the\nbabe was right, for though Scioccolone and the princess had never met,\nScioccolone had wished that he might have a son, of whom she should\nbe the mother, and by the power of the spell [99] the child was born.\n\nScioccolone was only too delighted with the king's angry decree. He\nfelt quite out of place in the palace, and was glad enough to be\nsent away from it. All he wanted was to have such a beautiful wife,\nand he willingly obeyed the king's command to take her away, a long,\nlong way off.\n\nThe princess, however, was quite of a different mind. She could not\ncease from crying, because she was given to such an uncouth, clownish\nhusband that no tidy peasant wench would have married.\n\nWhen, therefore, Scioccolone saw his beautiful bride so unhappy\nand distressed, he grew distressed himself; and in his distress he\nremembered once more the promise of the fairy, that whatever he wished\nhe might have, and he began wishing away at once. First he wished for\na pleasant villa, [100] prettily laid-out, and planted, and walled;\nthen, a casino [101] in the midst of it, prettily furnished, and having\nplenty of pastimes and diversions; then, for a farm, well-stocked with\nbeasts for all kinds of uses; for carriages and servants, for fruits\nand flowers, and all that can make life pleasant. And when he found\nthat with all these things the princess did not seem much happier than\nbefore, he bethought himself of wishing that he might be furnished with\na handsome person, polished manners, and an educated mind, altogether\nsuch as the princess wished. All his wishes were fulfilled, and the\nprincess now loved him very much, and they lived very happily together.\n\nAfter they had been living thus some time, it happened one day that\nthe king, going out hunting, observed this pleasant villa on the wold,\nwhere heretofore all had been bare, unplanted, and unbuilt.\n\n'How is this!' cried the king; and he drew rein, and went into the\nvilla intending to inquire how the change had come about.\n\nScioccolone came out to meet him, not only so transformed that the king\nnever recognised him, but so distinguished by courtesy and urbanity,\nthat the king himself felt ashamed to question him as to how the villa\nhad grown up so suddenly. He accepted his invitation to come and rest\nin the casino, however; and there they fell to conversing on a variety\nof subjects, till the king was so struck with the sagacity and prudence\nof Scioccolone's talk, that when he rose to take leave, he said:\n\n'Such a man as you I have long sought to succeed me in the government\nof the kingdom. I am growing old and have no children, and you are\nworthy in all ways to wear the crown. Come up, therefore, if you will,\nto the palace and live with me, and when I die you shall be king.'\n\nScioccolone, now no longer feeling himself so ill-adapted to live in\na palace, willingly consented, and a few days after, with his wife\nand his little son, he went up to the palace to live with the king.\n\nBut the king's delight can scarcely be imagined when he found that\nthe wife of the polished stranger was indeed his very own daughter.\n\nAfter a few years the old king died, and Scioccolone reigned in his\nstead. And thus the promises of all the three fairies were fulfilled.\n\n\n\n[Among the Italian-Tirolese tales is one called 'I tre pezzi rari'\n(The Three Rare Things), which begins just like 'Scioccolone,' and then\nthe fairies give the three gifts of a dinner-providing table-cloth,\nan exhaustless purse, and a resistless cudgel, which we so often\nmeet with, as in Grimm's 'Tischchen deck dich,' p. 142; Campbell's\n'Three Soldiers,' i. p. 176-93, who refers to numerous other versions,\nin which other incidents of the two next succeeding tales occur. The\nSpanish version I have given by the name of 'Matanzas' in 'Patra\u00f1as.'\n\nIn the Roman version of the 'Dodici palmi di naso,' it is singular\nthat it is the second and not the youngest son who is the hero. There\nis another Italian-Tirolese story, entitled 'Il Zufolotta,' in which\nonly one boy and two fairies are concerned, and they only give him the\none gift of the Zufoletto, which, instead of supplying every wish as in\n'Dodici palmi di naso,' has the power of the Zauberfl\u00f6te, the pipe of\nthe 'Pied Piper,' and kindred instruments in all times and countries,\nso that, when it has got its possessor into such trouble that he\nis condemned to be executed, it answers the same end as the cudgel,\nliberating its master by setting the judge and executioner dancing,\ninstead of by thumping them.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTWELVE FEET OF NOSE. [102]\n\n\nThere was a poor old father, who was very poor indeed, and very\nold. When he came to die, he called his three sons round his bed,\nand said they must summon a notary to make his will. The sons looked\nat each other, and thought he was doating. He repeated his desire,\nand then one of them ventured to say:\n\n'But father, dear, why should we go to the expense of calling in a\nnotary; there is not a single thing on earth you have to leave us!'\n\nBut the old man told them again to call a notary, and still they\nhesitated, because they thought the notary would say they were making\ngame of him.\n\nAt last the old man began to get angry when he found they would not\ndo as he said, and, just not to vex him in his last moments, they\ncalled the notary, and the notary brought his witnesses.\n\nThen the father was content, and called them all to his bedside.\n\n'Now, pull out the old case under the bed, and take out what you\nfind there.'\n\nThey found an old broken hat, without a brim, a ragged purse that\nwas so worn you could not have trusted any money in its keeping,\nand a horn. [103]\n\nThese three things he bequeathed in due form of law, one to each of\nhis sons; and it was only because they saw that the man was in his\ndeath agony that those who were called to act as witnesses could keep\nfrom laughing. To the notary, of course, it was all one whether it was\nan old hat or a new one, his part was the same, and when he had done\nwhat was needful, he went his way, and the witnesses went with him;\nbut as they went out, they said one to another:\n\n'Poor old man! perhaps it is a comfort to him in his last moments to\nfancy he has got something to leave.'\n\nWhen they were all gone, as the three sons were standing by, very sad,\nand looking at each other, not knowing what to make of the strange\nscene, he called the eldest, to whose portion the hat had fallen,\nand said:\n\n'See what I've given you.'\n\n'Why, father!' answered he, 'it isn't even good enough to bind round\none's knee when one goes out hoeing!'\n\nBut the father answered:\n\n'I wouldn't let you know its value till those people were gone, lest\nany should take it from you; this is its value, that if you put it\non, you can go in to dine at whatever inn you please, or sit down to\ndrink at what wineshop you please, and take what you like and drink\nwhat you like, for no one will see you while you have it on.'\n\nThen he called his second son, to whose lot the purse had fallen,\nand he said:\n\n'See what I have given you.'\n\n'Why, father!' answered the son, 'it isn't even good enough to keep\na little tobacco in, if I could afford to buy any!'\n\nBut the father answered:\n\n'I wouldn't tell you its value till those people were gone, lest any\nshould take it from you; but this is its value; if you put your fingers\nin, you'll find a scudo there, and after that another, and another,\nas many as ever you will; there will always be one.'\n\nThen he called his youngest son, and said:\n\n'See what I have given you.'\n\nAnd he answered:\n\n'Yes, father, it's a very nice horn; and when I am starving hungry\nI can cheat myself into being content by playing on it.'\n\n'Silly boy!' answered the father; 'that is not its use. I wouldn't\ntell you its value while those people were here, lest they should\ntake it from you. Its value is this, that whenever you want anything\nyou have only to sound it, and one will come who will bring whatever\nyou want, be it a dinner, a suit of clothes, a palace, or an army.'\n\nAfter this the father died, and each found himself well provided with\nthe legacy he had given him.\n\nIt happened that one day as the second son [104] was passing under\nthe window of the palace a waiting-maid looked out and said: 'Can\nyou play at cards?'\n\n'As well as most,' answered the youth.\n\n'Very well, then; come up,' answered the waiting-maid; 'for the queen\nwants some one to play with her.'\n\nVery readily he went up, therefore, and played at cards with the queen,\nand when he had played all the evening he had lost fifty scudi.\n\n'Never mind about paying the fifty scudi,' said the queen, as he rose\nto leave. 'We only played to pass away the time, and you don't look\nby your dress as if you could afford fifty scudi.'\n\n'Not at all!' replied the youth. 'I will certainly bring the fifty\nscudi in the morning.'\n\nAnd in the morning, by putting his fingers fifty times into the ragged\npurse, he had the required sum, and went back with it to the palace\nand paid the queen.\n\nThe queen was very much astonished that such a shabby-looking fellow\nshould have such command of money, and determined to find out how it\nwas; so she made him stay and dine. After dinner she took him into\nher private room and said to him:\n\n'Tell me, how comes it that you, who are but a shabby-looking fellow,\nhave such command of money?'\n\n'Oh!' answered he quite unsuspectingly, 'because my father left me\na wonderful purse, in which is always a scudo.'\n\n'Nonsense!' answered the queen. 'That is a very pretty fable, but\nsuch purses don't exist.'\n\n'Oh, but it is so indeed,' answered the youth.\n\n'Quite impossible,' persisted the queen.\n\n'But here it is; you can see for yourself!' pursued the incautious\nyouth, taking it out.\n\nThe queen took it from him as if to try its powers, but no sooner\nwas she in possession of it than she called in the guard to turn out\na fellow who was trying to rob her, and give him a good beating.\n\nIndignant at such treatment, the youth went to his eldest brother\nand begged his hat of him that he might, by its means, go and punish\nthe queen.\n\nPutting on the hat he went back to the palace at the hour of dinner\nand sat down to table. As soon as the queen was served he took her\nplate and ate up all that was in it one course after another, so that\nthe queen got nothing, and finding it useless to call for more dishes,\nshe gave it up as a bad job, and went into her room. The youth followed\nher in and demanded the return of his wonderful purse.\n\n'How can I know it is you if I don't see you?' said the queen.\n\n'Never mind about seeing me. Put the purse out on the table for me\nand I will take it.'\n\n'No, I can't if I don't see you,' replied the queen. 'I can't believe\nit is you unless I see you.'\n\nThe youth fell into the snare and took off his hat.\n\n'How did you manage to make yourself invisible?' asked the queen.\n\n'Just by putting on this old hat.'\n\n'I don't believe that could make you invisible,' exclaimed the\nqueen. 'Let me try.'\n\nAnd she snatched the hat out of his hand and put it on. Of course she\nwas now in turn invisible, and he sought her in vain; but worse than\nthat, she rang the bell for the guard and bid them turn the shabby\nyouth out and give him a bastonata.\n\nFull of fresh indignation he ran to his youngest brother and told\nhim all his story, begging the loan of his horn, that he might punish\nthe queen by its means; and the brother lent it him.\n\nHe sounds the horn and One comes. [105]\n\n'I want an army with cannons to throw down the palace,' said the\nyouth; and instantly there was a tramp of armed men, and a rumble of\nartillery waggons.\n\nThe queen was sitting at dinner, but when she heard all the noise she\ncame to the window; meantime the soldiers had surrounded the palace\nand pointed their guns.\n\n'What's all this about! What's the matter!' cried the queen out of\nthe window.\n\n'The matter is, that I want my purse and my hat back,' answered\nthe youth.\n\n'To be sure! you are right; here they are. I don't want my palace\nbattered down, so I will give them to you.'\n\nThe youth went up to receive them; but when he got upstairs he found\nthe queen sunk half fainting in a chair.\n\n'Oh! I'm so frightened; I can't think where I put the things. Only\nsend away that army and I'll look for them immediately.'\n\nThe youth sent away the army, and the queen got up and began looking\nabout for the things.\n\n'Tell me,' she said, as she wandered from one cupboard to another,\n'how did you, who are such a shabby-looking fellow, manage to call\ntogether such an army?'\n\n'Because I've got this horn,' answered the youth. 'And with it I can\ncall up whatever I want, and if you don't make haste and find the\npurse and the hat, I'll call up the army again and batter down the\npalace in right earnest.'\n\n'You won't make me believe that!' replied the queen. 'That sorry\nhorn can't work such wonders as that: let me try.' And she took the\nhorn out of his hands and sounded it and One appeared. 'Two stout\nmen!' she commanded quickly; and when they came she bid them drive\nthe shabby-looking youth out of the palace and give him a bastonata.\n\nHe was now quite undone, and was ashamed to go back to his brothers. So\nhe wandered away outside the town. After much walking he came to a\nvineyard, where he strolled in; and what struck him was, that though it\nwas January, there was a fine fig-tree covered with ripe luscious figs.\n\n'This is a godsend indeed,' he said, 'to a hungry man,' and he began\nplucking and eating the figs. Before he had eaten many, however,\nhe found his nose had begun to grow to a terrible size; a foot for\nevery fig.\n\n'That'll never do!' he cried, and left off eating the figs and wandered\non. Presently he came to another vineyard, where he also strolled in:\nthere, though it was January, he saw a tree all covered with ripe red\ncherries. 'I wonder what calamity will pursue me for eating them,'\nhe said, as he gathered them. But when he had eaten a good many he\nperceived that at last his luck had turned, for in proportion as he\nate his nose grew less and less, till at last it was just the right\nsize again.\n\n'Now I know how to punish the queen,' he said, and he filled a bottle\nwith the juice of the cherries, and went back and gathered a basketful\nof figs.\n\nThese figs he cried under the palace window, and as he had got more\ndusty and threadbare with his late wanderings no one recognised\nhim. 'Figs in January! that is a treat!' and they bought up the whole\nbasketful. Then as they ate, their noses all began to grow, but the\nqueen, as she was very greedy, ate twelve for her share, so that she\nhad twelve feet of nose added to the length of hers. It was so long\nthat it trailed behind her on the ground as she walked along.\n\nThen there was a hue and cry! All the surgeons and physicians in the\nkingdom were sent for, but could do no good. They were all in despair,\nwhen our youth came up disguised as a foreign doctor.\n\n'Noses! I can heal noses! whoever has got too much nose let him come\nto me!'\n\nAll the inhabitants gathered round him, and the queen called to him\nloudest of all.\n\n'The medicine I have to give is necessarily a very strong one to\neffect so extraordinary a cure; therefore I won't give it to the\nqueen's majesty till she has seen it used on all her servants,\nbeginning with the lowest.'\n\nTaking them all in order, beginning with the lowest, he gave a few\ndrops of cherry-juice to each, and all their noses came right.\n\nLast of all the queen remained.\n\n'The queen can't be treated like common people,' he said; 'she must\nbe treated by herself. I must go into her room with her, and I can\ncure her with one drop of my cordial.'\n\n'You think yourself very clever that you talk of curing with one\ndrop of your cordial, but you're not the only person who can work\nwonders. I've got greater wonders than yours. I've got a hat which\nmakes you invisible, a purse that never is empty, and a horn that\ngives you everything you call for.'\n\n'Very pretty things to talk about,' answered the pretended doctor,\n'but such things don't exist.'\n\n'Don't they!' said the queen. 'There they are!'\n\nAnd she laid them all out on the table.\n\nThis was enough for him. Taking advantage of the lesson she had\ngiven him by her example, he quickly put on the hat, making himself\ninvisible; after that it was easy to snatch up the other things and\nescape; nor could anyone follow him. He lived very comfortably for the\nrest of his life, taking a scudo out of his purse for whatever he had\nto pay, and his brothers likewise got on very well with their legacies,\nfor he restored them as soon as he had rescued them from the queen. But\nthe queen remained for the rest of her life with TWELVE FEET OF NOSE.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA YARD OF NOSE. [106]\n\n\nThere was once a poor orphan youth left all alone, with no home,\nand no means of gaining a living, and no place of shelter.\n\nNot knowing what to do he wandered away over the Campagna, straight\non; when he had wandered all day and was ready to die of hunger and\nweariness, he at last saw a fig-tree covered with ripe figs.\n\n'There's a godsend!' said the poor orphan; and he set to upon the\nfigs without ceremony. But, lo! he had scarcely eaten half-a-dozen\nwhen his nose began to feel very odd; he put his hand up to it and it\nfelt much bigger than usual; however, he was too hungry to trouble\nhimself about it, and he ate on. As he ate on his nose felt queerer\nand queerer; he put his hand up and found it was quite a foot [107]\nlong! But he was so hungry he went on eating still, and before he\nhad done he had fully a yard of nose.\n\n'A pretty thing I have done for myself now! As well might I have\ndied of starvation as make myself such an object as this! Never can\nI appear among civilised beings again.' And he laid himself down to\nsleep, hiding himself in the foliage of the fig-tree lest anybody\npassing by should see his nose.\n\nIn the morning the first thing he thought of when he awoke was his\nnose; he had no need to put up his hand to feel it for it reached\ndown to his hand, a full yard of it waggling about.\n\n'There's no help for it,' he said. 'I must keep away from all habitable\nplaces, and live as best I may.'\n\nSo he wandered on and on over the Campagna away from all habitations,\nstraight on; and when he had wandered all day and was ready to die\nof hunger and weariness he saw another fig-tree covered with ripe figs.\n\nRight glad he was to see anything in the shape of food. 'If it had only\nbeen anything else in the world but figs!' he said. 'If I go on at this\nrate I shan't be able to carry my nose along at all! Yet starving is\nhard, too, and I'm such a figure now, nothing can make me much worse,\nso here goes!' and he began eating at the figs without more ado.\n\nAs he ate this time, however, his nose, instead of feeling queerer\nand queerer as it had before, began to feel lighter and lighter.\n\nLess, less, and still less it grew, [108] till at last he had to put\nhis hand up to feel where it was, and by the time he had done eating,\nit was just its natural size again.\n\n'Now I know how to make my fortune!' [109] he cried, and he danced\nfor delight.\n\nWith a basketful of the figs of the first tree he trudged to the\nnearest town, still clad in his peasant's dress, and cried, 'Fine\nfigs! fine figs! who'll buy my beautiful ripe figs!'\n\nAll the people ran out to see the new fruit-seller, and his figs looked\nso tempting that plenty of people bought of him. Among the foremost\nwas the host of the inn, with his wife and his buxom daughter, and\nevery one of them, as they ate the figs their noses began to grow\nand grow till everyone of them had a nose fully a yard long.\n\nThen there was a hue and cry through the whole town, everyone with\nhis yard of nose dangling and waggling, came running out, calling,\n'Ho! Here! Wretch of a fruit-seller!' [110]\n\nBut our fruit-seller had had the good sense to foresee the coming\nstorm, and had taken care to get far out of the way of pursuit.\n\nBut the next day he dressed himself like a doctor, all in black,\nwith a long false beard, and came to the same town, where he entered\nthe druggist's [111] shop, and gave himself out for a great doctor.\n\n'You come in good season!' said the druggist. 'A doctor is wanted\nhere just now, if ever one was, for to everyone almost in the town is\ngrown a nose [112] so big! so big! in fact, a full yard of nose! Anyone\nwho could reduce these noses might make a fortune indeed!'\n\n'Why, that's just what I excel at of all things. Let me see some of\nthese people,' answered our pretended doctor.\n\nThe druggist looked incredulous at a real remedy turning up so very\nopportunely; but at the same moment a pretty peasant girl came into\nthe shop to buy some medicine for her mother; that is, she would have\nbeen pretty if it had not been for the terrible nose, which made a\nfright of her. The false doctor was seized with compunction when he saw\nwhat a fright his figs had made of this pretty girl, and he took out\nsome figs of the other tree and gave her to eat, and immediately her\ntremendous nose grew less, and less, and less, and she was a pretty\ngirl again. Of course it need not be said that he did not give her\nthe figs in their natural state and form; he had peeled and pounded,\nand made them up with other things to disguise them.\n\nThe druggist no sooner saw this wonderful cure than he was prompt\nto publish it, and there was quite a strife who should have the new\ndoctor the first.\n\nIt was the innkeeper who succeeded in being the first to possess\nhimself of him. 'What will you give me for the cure?' said the\nstrange doctor.\n\n'Whatever you have the conscience to ask,' replied the host, panting\nto be rid of the monstrosity.\n\n'Four thousand scudi apiece,' replied the false doctor; and the\nhost, his wife, and his buxom daughter stood in a row waiting to be\ncured. With the same remedy that had cured the peasant girl he cured\nthe host first, and next his daughter. After he had cured her he said,\n'Instead of the second premium of four thousand scudi, I will take\nthe hand of your daughter, if you like?'\n\n'Yes, if you wish; it's a very good idea,' replied the host.\n\n'Never, while I live!' said the wife.\n\n'Why not? He's a very good husband!' said the host.\n\n'An ugly old travelling doctor, who comes no one knows whence, to\nmarry my daughter indeed!' said the wife.\n\n'I'm sure we're under great obligations to his cleverness,' said\nthe husband.\n\n'Then let him be paid his price, and go about his business, and not\ntalk impudence!' said the wife.\n\n'But I choose that he shall marry her!' said the husband.\n\n'And I choose that he shan't,' said the wife; 'and you'll find that\nmuch stronger.'\n\nJust then a customer came in, and the host had to go and attend upon\nhim, and while he was gone the wife called the servants, and bade them\nturn the doctor out, and give him a good drubbing into the bargain,\nsaying, 'I'll have some other doctor to cure me!'\n\nSo he left them, and went on curing people's noses all day, till he\nhad made a lot of money. Then he went away, but limping all the time\nfrom the beating he had received. The next day he came back dressed\nlike a Turk, so that no one would have known him for the same man,\nand he came back to the same inn, saying he, too, could cure noses.\n\nThe mistress of the inn gave him a hearty welcome, as she was very\nanxious to find another doctor who could cure her nose.\n\n'My treatment is effectual, but it is rude,' said the pretended\nTurk. 'I don't know if you'll like to submit to it.'\n\n'Oh yes! Anything, whatever it may be, only to be rid of this monstrous\nnose,' said the hostess.\n\n'Then you must come into a room by yourself with me,' said the\npretended Turk; 'and I have a stick here made out of the root of\na particular tree. I must thump you on the back with it, and in\nproportion as I thump you the nose will draw in. Of course it will\nhurt very much, and make you cry out, so you must tell your servants\nand people outside that however much you may call they are not to\ncome in. For if they should come in and interrupt the cure, it would\nall have to be begun over again, and all you had suffered would go\nfor nothing.'\n\nSo the hostess gave strict orders, saying, 'I am going into this room\nwith the Turk to be cured by him, and however much I may call out, or\nwhatever I may say, mind none of you, on pain of losing your places,\nopen the door, or come near the room.'\n\nThen she took the Turk into a room apart, and shut the door. The Turk\nno sooner got her alone than he made her lie with her face downwards\non a sofa, and then--whack, whack, whack! [113] he gave her such a\nbeating that she felt the effects of it to the end of her days.\n\nOf course it was in vain she screamed and roared for help; the servants\nhad had their orders, and none of them durst approach the room. It\nwas only when she had fainted that the Turk left her alone and went\nhis way.\n\nBut she never got her nose cured, and he married the pretty peasant\ngirl who was the subject of his first cure.\n\n\n\n[The two following stories contain a jumbling mixture of the incidents\nof the three preceding, set in a different framework; more or less\nmixed up with those in the stories of other countries mentioned at\np. 128. Some of those in 'The Transformation Donkey' occur in the\nSiddhi K\u00fcr story of 'The Gold-spitting Prince,' in 'Sagas from the\nFar East,' but they are constructed into a quite different tale.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHICORY-SELLER AND THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS. [114]\n\n\nThere was a chicory-seller, with a wife and a son, all of them dying\nof hunger, and sleeping on the floor because they couldn't afford\na bed. Once when they went out in the morning to gather chicory,\nthe son found such a large plant of it, never was such a plant seen,\nit took them an hour, working at it together, to pull it up, and it\nfilled two great bags. What is more, when they had got it all up,\nthere was a great hole in the ground.\n\n'What can there be down in that hole?' said the son. 'I must go and\nsee!' In he jumped, [115] and down he went.\n\nSuddenly he found himself in the midst of a splendid palace, and a\nnumber of obsequious servants gathered round him. They all bowed to\nthe ground, and said,\n\n'Your lordship! your lordship!' and asked him what he 'pleased\nto want.'\n\nSo there he was, dressed like a clodhopper, and all these servants\ndressed like princes, bowing and scraping to him.\n\n'What do I want?' said the lad; 'most of all, I want a dinner.'\n\nImmediately they brought him a banquet of a dinner, and waited on\nhim all the time. Dinner over, they dressed him like a prince.\n\nBy-and-by there came in an ugly old hag, as ugly as a witch, who said,\n\n'Good morning, Prince; are you come to marry me?'\n\n'I'm no prince; and I'm not come to marry you most certainly!' replied\nthe youth.\n\nBut all the servants standing round made all sorts of gesticulations\nthat he should say 'yes.'\n\n'It's no use mouthing at me,' said the lad; 'I shall never say \"yes\"\nto that!'\n\nBut they went on making signs all round that he should say 'yes,'\ntill at last they bewildered him so, that, almost without knowing\nwhat he did, he said 'yes.'\n\nDirectly he had said 'yes,' there were thunder and lightning, and\nthunderbolts, and meteors, and howling of wind, and storm of hail. The\nyouth felt in great fear; but the servants said:\n\n'It is all right. She you thought an old hag is indeed a beautiful\nprincess of eighteen, but she was under a spell; by consenting to\nmarry her you have ended that spell, if you can only stand through\nthe fear of this storm for three days and three nights, no harm can\ncome to you, and we also shall all be set free.'\n\nThe whole apartment now seemed on fire, and when that ceased for a\ntime, it seemed to rain fire all around.\n\nFor two days he managed to endure, but on the third day he got so\nfrightened that he ran away. He had not much bettered his condition,\nhowever; for, if he had got away from the magic storms of the under\nworld, he had come into real storms in the actual world, and there\nhe was alone in the Campagna, starving and destitute again.\n\nAt last an old man appeared, who said to him:\n\n'Why were you so foolish as to run away? You were told no harm could\nhappen to you. Now you have nearly lost all. There is, however,\none remedy left. Go on to the top of that high mountain, and gather\nthe grass that grows there, and bring back a large bundle of it,\nand give it to these people to eat, and that will finish what you\nhave begun. You will marry the princess, and share her kingdom; and\nall her people will be set free. For all those who waited on you as\nservants are noblemen of her court, who are under a spell.'\n\n'How am I to get up to the top of that high mountain?' said the youth;\n'it would take me a life of weariness to arrive there!'\n\n'Take this divining-rod,' said the old man, 'and whatever difficulty\ncomes in your way, touch it with this wand, and it will disappear.'\n\nThe youth took the wand, and bent his steps towards the mountain. There\nwere rivers to be crossed, and steep places to be climbed, and many\nperils to be encountered, but the wand overcame them all. Arrived at\nthe top, he saw a plat of fine, long grass growing, which he made no\ndoubt was the grass he had to take. But he thought within himself,\n'If this wand can do so much, it can surely give me also a house and a\ndinner; and, then, why should I toil down this mountain again at all!'\n\n'Rod! rod! give me a nice little house!' he commanded; [116] and\nthere was a nice little house on the top of the mountain.\n\n'Rod! rod! give me a good dinner!' and a good dinner was spread on\nthe table.\n\nAnd thus it was with everything he wanted; so he went on living on\nthe top of the mountain, without thinking of those he had to deliver\nin the hole under the earth.\n\nSuddenly, there stood the old man. [117] 'You were not sent here to\namuse yourself,' said he, severely. 'You were sent to fetch the means\nof delivering others;' and he took the wand away from him, and touched\nthe casino, and it disappeared, and he was once more left destitute.\n\n'If you would repair the past,' said the old man, as he went away,\n'gather even now a bundle of grass and take it, and perhaps you will be\nin time yet; but you will have to toil alone, for you have forfeited\nthe rod. And now, remember this counsel: whoever meets you by the\nway and asks to buy that grass, sell it to no man, or you are undone.'\n\nAs there was nothing else to be done, the youth set to work and cut\nsome grass, and then terrible was the way he had to walk to get down\nagain. Storms of fire broke continually over him, and every moment\nit seemed as though he would be precipitated to the bottom.\n\nAs he reached the plain a traveller met him.\n\n'Oh, you have some of that grass,' said he. 'I was just going up the\nmountain to get some. If you will give it me, and save my journey,\nI will give you a prancing horse, all covered with gold trappings\nstudded with precious stones.'\n\nBut this time the youth began to pay more attention to the injunctions\nlaid upon him, and he shook his head, and walked on.\n\n'Give it me,' continued the stranger, 'and I will give you in return\nfor it a casino of your own in the Campagna, where you may live all\nyour life.'\n\nBut the youth shook his head, and continued his way, without so much\nas answering him.\n\n'Give it me,' said the stranger the third time, 'and I will give you\ngold enough to make you rich all your days.'\n\nBut the youth stood out the third temptation as well as the other two,\nand then the stranger disappeared.\n\nWithout further hindrance he arrived at the chicory-hole, let himself\ndown, and gave the grass to all the people to eat, who were half dead\nwith waiting so long for him; and as they ate, the spell ceased. Only\nas he had cut the grass in an indolent sort of way, he had not brought\nso large a quantity as he ought, and there was one poor maiden left\nfor whose deliverance the provision sufficed not.\n\nMeantime the whole face of the country was changed. The plain was\ncovered with flourishing cities; over the chicory-hole was a splendid\npalace, where the maiden, who had under the spell looked like an old\nhag, took up her abode, and where the old man had promised that he\nshould live with her for his reward.\n\nThis reward he now came to claim.\n\n'But you have not completed your task,' said the princess.\n\n'I think I have done a pretty good deal,' answered the youth.\n\n'But there is that one who is yet undelivered.'\n\n'Oh, I can't help about one. She must manage the best way she can.'\n\n'That won't do,' said the princess. 'If you want to have me, you must\ncomplete your work.'\n\nSo he had to toil all the way up to the top of the mountain, and all\nthe way down again, and at last the work was complete.\n\nThen the princess married him, and all went wondrously well. [118]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRANSFORMATION-DONKEY. [119]\n\n\nThere was once a poor chicory-seller: all chicory-sellers are poor,\nbut this was a very poor one, and he had a large family of daughters\nand two sons. The daughters he left at home with their mother, but\nthe two sons he took with him to gather chicory. While they were out\ngathering chicory one day, a great bird flew down before them and\ndropped an egg and then flew away again. The boys picked up the egg\nand brought it to their father, because there were some figures like\nstrange writing on it which they could not read; but neither could the\nfather read the strange writing, so he took the egg to a farmer. [120]\nThe farmer read the writing, and it said:--\n\n'Whoso eats my head, he shall be an emperor.'\n\n'Whoso eats my heart, he shall never want for money.'\n\n'Ho, ho!' said the farmer to himself, 'it won't do to tell the fellow\nthis; I must manage to eat both the head and the heart myself.' So\nhe said, 'The meaning of it is that whoever eats the bird will make\na very good dinner; so to-morrow when the bird comes back, as she\ndoubtless will to lay another egg, have a good stick ready and knock\nher down; then you can make a fire, and bake it between the stones,\nand I will come and eat it with you if you like.'\n\nThe poor chicory-seller thought his fortune was made when a farmer\noffered to dine with him, and the hours seemed long enough till next\nmorning came.\n\nWith next morning, however, came the bird again. The chicory-seller\nwas ready with his stick and knocked her down, and the boys made a fire\nand cooked the bird. But as they were not very apt at the trussing and\ncooking, the head dropped into the fire, and the youngest boy said:\n'This will never do to serve up, all burnt as it is;' so he ate it. The\nheart also fell into the fire and got burnt, and the eldest boy said:\n'This will never do to serve up, all burnt as it is;' so he ate that.\n\nBy-and-by the farmer came, and they all sat down on a bank--the farmer\nquite jovial at the idea of the immense advantage he was going to\ngain, and the chicory-seller quite elated at the idea of entertaining\na farmer.\n\n'Bring forward the roast, boys,' said the father; and the boys brought\nthe bird.\n\n'What have you done with the head?' exclaimed the farmer, the moment\nhe saw the bird.\n\n'Oh, it got burnt, and I ate it,' said the younger boy.\n\nThe merchant ground his teeth and stamped his foot, but he dared not\nsay why he was so angry; so he sat silent while the chicory-seller\ntook out his knife [121] and cut the bird up in portions.\n\n'Give me the piece with the heart, if I may choose,' said the merchant;\n'I'm very fond of birds' hearts.'\n\n'Certainly, any part you like,' replied the chicory-seller, nervously\nturning all the pieces over and over again; 'but I can't find any\nheart. Boys, had the bird no heart?'\n\n'Yes, papa,' answered the elder brother, 'it had a heart, sure enough;\nbut it tumbled into the fire and got burnt, and so I ate it.'\n\nThere was no object in disguising his fury any longer, so the farmer\nexclaimed testily, 'Thank you, I'll not have any then; the head and\nthe heart are just the only parts of a bird I care to eat.' And so\nsaying he turned on his heel and went away.\n\n'Look, boys, what you've done! You've thrown away the best chance we\never had in our lives!' cried the father in despair. [122] 'After the\nfarmer had taken dinner with us he must have asked us to dine with\nhim, and, as one civility always brings another, there is no saying\nwhat it might not have led to. However, as you have chosen to throw\nthe chance away, you may go and look out for yourselves. I've done\nwith you.' And with a sound cudgelling [123] he drove them away.\n\nThe two boys, left to themselves, wandered on till they came to a\nstable, when they entered the yard and asked to be allowed to do some\nwork or other as a means of subsistence.\n\n'I've nothing for you to do,' said the landlord; 'but, as it's late,\nyou may sleep on the straw there, on the condition that you go about\nyour business to-morrow first thing.'\n\nThe boys, glad to get a night's lodging on any condition, went to\nsleep in the straw. When the elder brother woke in the morning he\nfound a box of sequins [124] under his head.\n\n'How could this have come here,' soliloquised the boy, 'unless the\nhost had put it there to see if we were honest? Well, thank God,\nif we're poor there's no danger of either of us taking what doesn't\nbelong to us.' So he took the box to the host, and said: 'There's\nyour box of sequins quite safe. You needn't have taken the trouble\nto test our honesty in that way.'\n\nThe host was very much surprised, but he thought the best way was to\ntake the money and say nothing but 'I'm glad to see you're such good\nboys.' So he gave them breakfast and some provisions for the way.\n\nNext night they found themselves still in the open country and no\ninn near, and they were obliged to be content to sleep on the bare\nground. Next morning when they woke the younger boy again found a\nbox of sequins under his head.\n\n'Only think of that host not being satisfied with trying us once,\nbut to come all this way after us to test our honesty again. However,\nI suppose we must take it back to him.'\n\nSo they walked all the way back to the host and said: 'Here's your\nbox of sequins back; as we didn't steal it the first time it was not\nlikely we should take it the second time.'\n\nThe host was more and more astonished; but he took the money without\nsaying anything, only he praised the boys for being so good and gave\nthem a hearty meal. And they went their way, taking a new direction.\n\nThe next night the younger brother said: 'Do you know I've my doubts\nabout the host having put that box of sequins under your head. How\ncould he have done it out in the open country without our seeing\nhim? To-night I will watch, and if he doesn't come, and in the\nmorning there is another box of sequins, it will be a sign that it\nis your own.'\n\nHe did so, and next morning there was another box of sequins. So they\ndecided it was honestly their own, and they carried it by turns and\njourneyed on. About noon they came to a great city where the emperor\nwas lately dead, and all the people were in great excitement about\nchoosing another emperor. The population was all divided in factions,\neach of which had a candidate, and none would let the candidate of\nthe others reign. There was so much fighting and quarrelling in the\nstreets that the brothers got separated, and saw each other no more.\n\nAt this time it happened that it was the turn of the younger brother\nto be carrying the box of sequins. When the sentinels at the gate saw\na stranger coming in carrying a box they said, 'We must see what this\nis,' and they took him to the minister. When the minister saw his box\nwas full of sequins he said, 'This must be our emperor.' And all the\npeople said, 'Yes, this is our emperor. Long live our emperor!' And\nthus the boy became an emperor.\n\nBut the elder brother had entered unperceived into the town, and\nwent to ask hospitality in a house where was a woman with a beautiful\ndaughter; so they let him stay. That night also there came a box of\nsequins under his head; so he went out and bought meat and fuel and\nall manner of provisions, and gave them to the mother, and said,\n'Because you took me in when I was poor last night, I have brought\nyou all these provisions out of gratitude,' and for the beautiful\ndaughter he bought silks and damasks, and ornaments of gold. But\nthe daughter said, 'How comes it, tell me, that you, who were a\npoor footsore wayfarer last night, have now such boundless riches\nat command?' And because she was beautiful and spoke kindly to him,\nhe suspected no evil, but told her, saying, 'Every morning when I\nwake now, I find a box of sequins under my head.'\n\n'And how comes it,' said she, 'that you find a box of sequins under\nyour head now, and not formerly?' 'I do not know,' he answered, 'unless\nit be because one day when I was out with father gathering chicory,\na great bird came and dropt an egg with some strange writing on it,\nwhich we could not read. But a farmer read it for us; only he would\nnot tell us what it said, but that we should cook the bird and eat\nit. While we were cooking it the heart fell into the fire and got\nburnt, and I ate it: and when the farmer heard this he grew very\nangry. I think, therefore, the writing on the egg said that he who\nate the heart of the bird should have many sequins.'\n\nAfter this they spent the day pleasantly together; but the daughter\nput an emetic in his wine at supper, and so made him bring up the\nbird's heart, which she kept for herself, and the next morning when\nhe woke there was no box of sequins under his head. When he rose in\nthe morning also the beautiful girl and her mother turned him out of\nthe house, and he wandered forth again.\n\nAt last, being weary and full of sorrow, he sat down on the ground\nby the side of a stream crying. Immediately three fairies appeared\nto him and asked him why he wept. And when he told them, they said\nto him: 'Weep no more, for instead of the bird's heart we give you\nthis sheepskin jacket, the pockets of which will always be full of\nsequins. How many soever you may take out they will always remain\nfull.' Then they disappeared; but he immediately went back to the house\nof the beautiful girl, taking her rich and fine presents; but she\nsaid to him, 'How comes it that you, who had no money left when you\nwent away, have now the means to buy all these fine presents?' Then\nhe told her of the gift of the three fairies, and they let him sleep\nin the house again, but the daughter called her maid to her and said:\n'Make a sheepskin jacket exactly like that in the stranger's room.' So\nshe made one, and they put it in his room, and took away the one the\nfairies had given him, and in the morning they drove him from the house\nagain. Then he went and sat down by the stream and wept again; but\nthe fairies came and asked him why he wept; and he told them, saying,\n'Because they have driven me away from the house where I stayed, and\nI have no home to go to, and this jacket has no more sequins in the\npockets.' Then the fairies looked at the jacket, and they said, 'This\nis not the jacket we gave you; it has been changed by fraud:' so they\ngave him in place of it a wand, and they said, 'With this wand strike\nthe table, and whatever you may desire, be it meat or drink or clothes,\nor whatsoever you may want, it shall come upon the table.' The next\nday he went back to the house of the woman and her daughter, and sat\ndown without saying anything, but he struck the table with his wand,\nwishing for a great banquet, and immediately it was covered with the\nchoicest dishes. There was no need to ask him questions this time,\nfor they saw in what his gift consisted, and in the night, when he\nwas asleep, they took his wand away. In the morning they drove him\nforth out of the house, and he went back to the stream and sat down\nto cry. Again the fairies appeared to him and comforted him; but they\nsaid, 'This is the last time we may appear to you. Here is a ring;\nkeep it on your hand; for if you lose this gift there is nothing more\nwe may do for you;' and they went away. But he immediately returned\nto the house of the woman and her beautiful daughter. They let him\nin, 'Because,' they said, 'doubtless the fairies have given him some\nother gift of which we may take profit.' And as he sat there he said,\n'All the other gifts of the fairies have I lost, but this one they\nhave given me now I cannot lose, because it is a ring which fits my\nfinger, and no one can take it from my hand.'\n\n'And of what use is your ring?' asked the beautiful daughter.\n\n'Its use is that whatever I wish for while I have it on I obtain\ndirectly, whatever it may be.'\n\n'Then wish,' said she, 'that we may be both together on the top of\nthat high mountain, and a sumptuous merenda [125] spread out for us.'\n\n'To be sure!' he replied, and he repeated her wish. Instantly they\nfound themselves on the top of the high mountain with a plentiful\nmerenda before them; but she had a vial of opium with her, and while\nhis head was turned away she poured the opium into his wine. Presently\nafter this he fell into a sound sleep, so sound that there was no fear\nof waking him. Immediately she took the ring from his finger and put\nit on her own; then she wished that she might be replaced at home and\nthat he might be left on the top of the mountain. And so it was done.\n\nIn the morning when he woke and found himself all alone on the top of\nthe high mountain and his ring gone, he wept bitter tears, and felt\ntoo weary to attempt the descent of the steep mountain side. For three\ndays he remained here weary and weeping, and then, becoming faint from\nhunger, he took some of the herbs that grew on the mountain top for\nfood. As soon as he had eaten these he was turned into a donkey, [126]\nbut as he retained his human intelligence, he said to himself, this\nherb has its uses, and he filled one of the panniers on his back with\nit. Then he came down from the mountain, and when he was at the foot of\nit, being hungry with the long journey, he ate of the grass that grew\nthere, and, behold! he was transformed back into his natural shape;\nso he filled the other basket with this kind of grass and went his way.\n\nHaving dressed himself like a street seller, he took the basket of\nthe herb which had the property of changing the eater into a donkey,\nand stood under the window of the house where he had been so evil\nentreated, and cried, 'Fine salad! fine salad! who will buy my fine\nsalad?' [127]\n\n'What is there so specially good about your salad?' asked the maid,\nlooking out. 'My young mistress is particularly fond of salad, so if\nyours is so very superfine, you had better come up.'\n\nHe did not wait to be twice told. As soon as he saw the beautiful\ndaughter, he said, 'This is fine salad, indeed, the finest of the fine,\nall fresh gathered, and the first of its kind that ever was sold.'\n\n'Very likely it's the first of its kind that ever was sold,' said she;\n'but I don't like to buy things I haven't tried; it may turn out not\nto be nice.'\n\n'Oh, try it, try it freely; don't buy without trying;' and he picked\none of the freshest and crispest bunches.\n\nShe took one in her hand and bit a few blades, and no sooner had she\ndone so than she too became a donkey. Then he put the panniers on her\nback and drove her all over the town, constantly cudgelling her till\nshe sank under the blows. Then one who saw him belabour her thus,\nsaid, 'This must not be; you must come and answer before the emperor\nfor thus belabouring the poor brute;' but he refused to go unless\nhe took the donkey with him; so they went to the emperor and said,\n'Here is one who is belabouring his donkey till she has sunk under his\nblows, and he refuses to come before the emperor to answer his cruelty\nunless he bring his donkey with him.' And the emperor made answer,\n'Let him bring the beast with him.'\n\nSo they brought him and his donkey before the emperor. When he found\nhimself before the emperor he said, 'All these must go away; to the\nemperor alone can I tell why I belabour my donkey.' So the emperor\ncommanded all the people to go to a distance while he took him and\nhis donkey apart. As soon as he found himself alone with the emperor\nhe said, 'See, it is I, thy brother!' and he embraced him. Then he\ntold him all that had befallen him since they parted. Then said the\nemperor to the donkey, 'Go now with him home, and show him where thou\nhast laid all the things--the bird's heart, the sheepskin jacket,\nthe wand, and the ring, that he may bring them hither; and if thou\ndeliver them up faithfully I will command that he give thee of that\ngrass to eat which shall give thee back thy natural form.'\n\nSo they went back to the house and fetched all the things, and the\nemperor said, 'Come thou now and live with me, and give me of thy\nsequins, and I will share the empire with thee.' Thus they reigned\ntogether.\n\nBut to the donkey they gave of the grass to eat, which restored her\nnatural form, only that her beauty was marred by the cudgelling she\nhad received. And she said, 'Had I not been so wilful and malicious\nI had now been empress.'\n\n\n\n[In these stories we have had the actions of three Fate, somewhat\nresembling English fairies; in the following, we meet with three who,\nas often happens in Roman stories, are nothing better than witches.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSIGNOR LATTANZIO.\n\n\nThey say there was a duke who wandered over the world seeking a\nbeautiful maiden to make his wife.\n\nAfter many years he came to an inn where was a lady, who asked him\nwhat he sought.\n\n'I have journeyed half the earth over,' answered the duke, 'to find\na wife to my fancy, and have not found one; and now I go back to my\nnative city as I came.'\n\n'How sad!' answered the lady. 'I have a daughter who is the most\nbeautiful maiden that ever was made; but three fairies have taken\npossession of her, and locked her up in a casino in the Campagna,\nand no one can get to see her.'\n\n'Only tell me where she is,' replied the duke, 'and I promise you\nI'll get to see her, in spite of all the fairies in the world.'\n\n'It is useless!' replied the lady. 'So many have tried and failed. So\nwill you.'\n\n'Not I!' answered the duke. 'Tell me how they failed, and I will\ndo otherwise.'\n\n'I have told so many, and all say the same as you, and all go to seek\nher, but none ever come back.'\n\n'Never mind! Tell it once again, and I promise you it shall be the\nlast time, for I will surely come back.'\n\n'If you are bent on sacrificing yourself uselessly,' proceeded the\nlady, 'this is the story. You must go to the mountain of Russia, and\nat the foot of it there will meet you three most beautiful maidens, who\nwill come round you, and praise you, and flatter you, and pour out all\nmanner of blandishments, and will ask you to go into their palace with\nthem, and will entreat you so much that you will not be able to resist;\nthen you will go into their palace with them, and they will turn you\ninto a cat, for they are three fairies. But, on the other hand, if\nyou can resist only for the space of one hour to all they will say to\nyou, then you will have conquered, and they will be turned into cats,\nand you will have free access to my daughter to release her.'\n\n'I will go,' said the duke firmly; and he rose up and went his way\nto the mountain of Russia.\n\n'Now, if all these other men have failed in this same attempt,'\nhe mused within himself as he went along, 'it behoves me to be\nprudent. I know what I will do; I will put a bandage over my eyes,\nand then I shan't see the fairies, and their blandishments will have\nno power over me.' And so he did.\n\nThen the fairies came out to him and said, 'Signor Lattanzio! welcome,\nwelcome! how fair you are; do take the bandage off and let us see\nyou; how noble you look. Do let us see your face? We are dying to\nhave you with us!'\n\nBut the duke remained firm, and seemed to take no heed, though their\nvoices were so soft and persuasive that he longed to look at them,\nor even to lift up one corner of the bandage and take a peep. But he\nremained firm.\n\n'Signor Lattanzio! Signor Lattanzio! Don't be so ungallant,' pursued\nthe fairies. 'Here are we at your feet, as it were, begging you to\ngive us your company, and you will not so much as speak to us, or\neven look at us!'\n\nBut the duke remained firm, and seemed to take no heed, though his\nhead was turned by their accents, and he felt that if he could only go\nwith them as they wished he should want no more. But he remained firm.\n\n'Signor Lattanzio! Signor Lattanzio! Signor Lattanzio!' cried the three\nfairies disdainfully, for now they began to suspect in right good\nearnest that at last one had come who was too strong for them. 'The\nfact is you are afraid of us. If you are a man, show you have no fear,\nand come and talk with us.'\n\nBut the duke remained firm, though a vanity, which had nearly lost him,\nwhispered that it would be a grander triumph to look them in the face\nand yet resist them, than to conquer without having ventured to look\nat them, yet prudence prevailed, and he remained firm.\n\nSo they went on, and the duke felt that the hour was drawing to a\nclose. He took out his repeater and struck it, and the hour of trial\nwas over.\n\n'Traitor!' cried the three fairies, and in the same instant they\nwere turned into cats. Then the duke went into their palace, and took\ntheir wand, and with it he could open the gates of the casino where\nthe lady's daughter was imprisoned.\n\nWhen he saw her, he found her indeed fairer than the fairest; fairer\neven than his conception.\n\nWhen, therefore, with the wand he had restored all the cats that were\nupon the mountain to their natural shapes as those that had failed\nin their enterprise, he took her home with him to be his wife.\n\n\n[As this was told me, the sign by which the duke was to recognise\nthe three fairies was, that they were to be sweeping the ground with\ntheir breasts. The incident seemed so extravagant, that I omitted it\nin writing out the story; I mention it, however, now because I find the\nsame in Note 1, on an Albanian story, to p. 177, in Ralston's 'Russian\nFolk Tales'; I met the incident subsequently in another Roman story.\n\nThe idea which has prompted this tale is apparently the same as that\nwhich has given rise to the story of 'Odysseus and the Seirens.' See\nCox's 'Aryan Mythology,' II. 242.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHOW CAJUSSE WAS MARRIED. [128]\n\n\nThere was a poor tailor starving for poverty because he could get no\nwork. One day there knocked at his door a good-natured-looking old man;\nthe tailor's son opened the door, and he won the boy's confidence\nimmediately, saying he was his uncle. He also gave him a piastre\n[129] to buy a good dinner. When the father came home and found him\ninstalled, and heard that he called himself his son's uncle, and would,\ntherefore, be his own brother, he was much surprised; but as he found\nhe was so rich and so generous, he thought it better not to dispute\nhis word. The visitor stayed a whole month, providing all expenses so\nfreely all the time that everyone was delighted with him, and when at\nlast he came to take leave, and proposed that the tailor's boy should\ngo with him and learn some business at his expense, the son himself was\nall eagerness to go, and the father, too, willingly gave his consent.\n\nAs soon as they had gone a good way outside the gates the stranger said\nto the boy, 'It is all a dodge about my calling myself your uncle. I\nam not your uncle a bit; only I want a strong daring sort of boy to\ndo something for me which I am too old to do myself. I am a wizard,\n[130] and if you do what I tell you I will reward you well; but if you\nattempt to resist or escape you may be sure you will suffer for it.'\n\n'Tell me what I have to do, before we talk about resisting and\nescaping,' replied the boy; 'maybe I shan't mind doing it.'\n\nThey were walking on as they talked, and the boy observed that they\ngot over much more ground than by ordinary walking, and they were\nnow in a wild desolate country. The wizard said nothing till they\nreached a spot where there was a flat stone in the ground. Here he\nstopped, and as he lifted up the stone, he said, 'This is what you\nhave to do. I will let you down with this rope, and you must go all\nalong through the dark till you come to a place where is a beautiful\ngarden. At the gate of the garden sits a fierce dog, which will fly\nout at you, and bark fearfully. I will give you some bread and cheese\nto throw to him, and, while he is devouring the bread and cheese,\nyou must pass on. Then all manner of terrible noises will cry after\nyou, calling you back; but take no heed of them, and, above all,\ndo not look back; if you look back you are lost. As soon as you are\nout of sound of the voices you will see on a stone an old lantern,\ntake that and bring it back to me.'\n\nThe boy showed no unwillingness to try his fortune, and the magician\ngave him the bread and cheese he had promised, and let him down by\na rope. He gave him also a ring, saying, 'If anything else should\nhappen, after you have got the lantern, to prevent your bringing\nit away, rub this ring and wish at the same time for deliverance,\nand you will be delivered.'\n\nThe boy did all the wizard had told him, and something more besides;\nfor when he got into the garden he found the trees all covered with\nbeautiful fruits, which were all so many precious stones; with these\nhe filled his pockets till he could hardly move for the weight of\nthem; then he came back to the opening of the cave, and called to\nthe wizard to pull him up.\n\n'Send up the lantern first,' said the magician, 'and I'll see about\npulling you up afterwards.'\n\nBut the boy was afraid lest he should be left behind; so he refused\nto send up the lantern unless the wizard hauled him up with it. This\nthe wizard would by no means do.\n\n'Ah! the youngster will be frightened if I shut him up in the dark\ncave a bit,' said he, and closed the stone, meaning to call to him\nby-and-by to see if he had come round to a more submissive mind. The\nboy, however, finding himself shut up alone in the cave, bethought him\nof the ring, and rubbed it, wishing the while to be at home. Instantly\nhe found himself there, lantern in hand. His parents were very much\nastonished at all he told them of his adventures, and, poor as they\nwere, were very glad to have him safe back.\n\n'I wonder what the magician wanted this ugly old lantern for,' said\nthe boy to himself one day. 'It must be good for something or he would\nnot have been so anxious to have it; let me try rubbing it, and see if\nthat answers as well as rubbing the ring.' He no sooner did so than\nOne [131] appeared, and asked his pleasure. 'A table well laid for\ndinner!' said the boy; and immediately a table appeared covered with\nall sorts of good things, with real silver spoons and forks. [132]\nThen he called on his mother and father, and they made a good meal;\nafter that they lived for a month on the price of the silver which\nthe mother took out and pawned. [133] One day she found the town all\nilluminated. What is going on?' she asked of the neighbours. 'The\ndaughter of the Sultan is going to marry the son of the Grand Vizier,\nand there is a distribution of alms to the people on the occasion;\nthat is why they rejoice.' Such was the answer.\n\nWhen she came home she told her son what she had heard. He said,\n'That will not be, because the daughter of the Sultan will have to\nmarry me!' but she only laughed at him. The next day he brought her\nthree neat little baskets filled with the precious stones which he\nhad gathered in the under-ground garden, and he said, 'These you\nmust take to the Sultan, and say I want to marry his daughter.' But\nshe was afraid and would not go; and when at last he made her go, she\nstood in a corner apart behind all the people, for there was a public\naudience, and came back and said she could not get at the Sultan;\nbut he made her go again the next two days following, and she always\ndid the same. The last day, however, the Sultan sent for her, saying,\n'Who is that old woman standing in the corner quite apart? bring her\nto me.' So they brought her to him all trembling.\n\n'Don't be afraid, old woman,' said the Sultan. 'What have you to say?'\n\n'My son, who must have lost his senses, sent me to say he wanted to\nmarry the daughter of the Sultan,' said the old woman, crying for\nvery fear; 'and he sends these baskets as a present.'\n\nWhen the Sultan took the baskets and saw of what great value were the\ncontents, he said, 'Don't be afraid, old woman; go back and tell your\nson I will give him an answer in a month.'\n\nShe went back and told her son; but at the end of a week the princess\nwas married, nevertheless, to the son of the Grand Vizier.\n\n'There!' said the mother, when she heard it; 'I thought the Grand\nSultan was only making game of you. Was it likely that the daughter\nof the Sultan should marry a beggar, [134] like you?'\n\n'Don't be in too great a hurry, mother,' replied the lad; 'leave it\nto me, leave it to me.' [135]\n\nWith that he went and took out the old lantern, and rubbed it till\nOne appeared asking his pleasure.\n\n'Go to-night, at three hours of night,' [136] was his reply, 'and\ntake the daughter of the Sultan and lay her in a poor wallet in the\nout-house here.'\n\nAt three hours of night he went into the out-house and found the\nprincess on the poor wallet as he had commanded. Then he laid his sabre\non the bed between them, and sat down and talked to her; but she was\ntoo frightened to answer him. This he did three nights running. The\nprincess, however, went crying to her mother, and told her all that had\nhappened. The Sultana could not imagine how it was. 'But,' she said,\n'something wrong there must be;' and she went and told the Sultan,\nand he, too, said it was all wrong, and that the marriage must be\nannulled. Also the son of the Grand Vizier went to his father and\ncomplained, saying, 'Every night my wife disappears just at bed-time,\nand, though the door is locked, I see nothing of her till the next\nmorning.'\n\nHis father too said, 'There must be something wrong,' and when the\nSultan said the marriage must be annulled, the Grand Vizier was quite\nwilling. So the marriage was annulled.\n\nAt the end of the month, the lad made his mother go back to the\nSultan for his answer, and he gave her three other baskets of precious\nstones to take with her. The Sultan, when he saw the man had so many\nprecious stones to give away, thought he must be in truth a prince\nin disguise, and he answered, 'He may come and see us.' He also said,\n'What is his name that I may know him?'\n\nAnd his mother said, 'His name is Cajusse.'\n\nSo she went home and told her son what the sultan had said. Then he\nrubbed the lantern and asked for a suit to wear, all dazzling with\ngold and silver, and a richly caparisoned horse, and six pages in\nvelvet dresses, four to ride behind, and one to go before with a purse\nscattering alms to the people, and one to cry, 'Make place for the\nSignor Cajusse!' Thus he came to the sultan, and the sultan received\nhim well, and gave him his daughter to be his wife; but Cajusse had\nbrought the lantern with him, and he rubbed it, and ordered that there\nshould stand by the side of the sultan's palace a palace a great deal\nhandsomer, furnished with every luxury, and that all the windows should\nbe encrusted round with precious stones, all but one. This was all\ndone as he had said, and he took the princess home with him to live\nthere. Then he showed her all over the beautiful palace, and showed her\nthe windows all encrusted with gems, 'and in this vacant one,' said he,\n'we will put those in the six baskets I sent you before the sultan\nconsented to our marriage; 'and they did so; but they did not suffice.\n\nBut the magician meantime had learnt by his incantations what had\nhappened, and in order to get possession of the lantern he watched\ntill Cajusse was gone out hunting; then he came by dressed as a\npedlar of metal work, [137] and offered to exchange old lanterns\nfor new ones. The princess thought to make a capital bargain by\nexchanging Cajusse's shabby old lantern for a brand new one, and\nthus fell into his snare. The magician no sooner had possession of\nit than he rubbed it, and ordered that the palace and all that was\nin it should be transported on to the high seas.\n\nThe sultan happened to look out of window just as the palace of\nCajusse had disappeared. 'What is this?' he cried. And when he found\nthe palace was really gone, he uttered so many furious threats that\nthe people, who loved Cajusse well, ran out to meet him as he came\nhome from hunting, and told him of all that had happened, and warned\nhim of the sultan's wrath. Instead of going back to be put in prison\nby the sultan therefore, he rubbed his ring and desired to be taken to\nthe place wherever the princess was. Instantly he found himself on a\nfloating rock in mid ocean, at the foot of the palace. Then he went to\nthe gate and sounded the horn. [138] The princess knew her husband's\nnote of sounding and ran to the window. Great was her delight when she\nsaw that it was really he, and she told him that there was a horrid\nold man who had possession of the palace, and persecuted her every day\nto marry him, saying her husband was dead. And she, to keep him at a\ndistance, yet without offending him lest he should kill her, had said:\n'No, I have always resolved never to marry an old man, because then if\nhe dies I should be left alone, and that would be too sad.' 'But when\nI say that,' she continued, 'he always says, \"You need not be afraid\nof that, for I shall never die!\" so I don't know what to say next.'\n\nThen the prince said, 'Make a great feast to-night, and say you\nwill marry him if he tells you one thing: say it is impossible that\nhe should never die, for all people die some day or other; it is\nimpossible but that there should be some one thing or other that is\nfatal to him; ask him what that one fatal thing is, and he, thinking\nyou want to know it that you may guard him against it, will tell;\nthen come and tell me what he says.'\n\nThe princess did all her husband had told her, and then came back\nand repeated what the magician had said: 'One must go into the wood,'\nshe repeated, 'where is the beast called hydra, and cut off all his\nseven heads. In the head which is in the middle of the other six, if\nit is split open, will be found a leveret; if this leveret is caught\nand his head split open there is a bird; if this bird is caught and\nhis head split open, there is in it a precious stone. If that stone\nis put under my pillow I must die.'\n\nThe prince did not wait for anything more: he rubbed the ring, and\ndesired to be carried to the wood where the hydra lived. Instantly he\nfound himself face to face with the hydra, who came forward spueing\nfire. But Cajusse had also asked for a coat of mail and a mighty sword,\nand with one blow he cut off the seven heads. Then he called to his\nservant to take notice which was the head which was in the middle\nof the other six, and the servant pointed it out. Then he said,\n'Watch when I split it open, for a leveret will jump out. Beware\nlest it escapes.' The servant stood to catch it, but it was so swift\nit ran past the servant. The prince, however, was swifter than it,\nand overtook it and killed it. Then he said, 'Beware when I split\nopen the head of the leveret. A little bird will fly out; mind that\nit escapes not, for we are undone if it escapes.' So the servant\nstood ready to catch the bird, but the bird was so swift it flew\npast the servant. The prince, however, was swifter than the bird,\nand he overtook it and killed it, and split open its head and took\nout the precious stone. Then he rubbed the ring and bid it take him\nback to the princess. The princess was waiting for him at the window.\n\n'Here is the stone,' said the prince; and he gave it to her, and\nwith it a bottle of opium. 'To-night,' he said, 'you must say you are\nready to marry the wizard; make a great feast again, and have ready\nsome of this opium in his wine. He will sleep heavily, and not see\nwhat you are doing; then you can put the stone under his pillow and\nwhen he is dead call me.'\n\nAll this the princess did. She told the wizard that she was now ready\nto do as he wished. The magician was so delighted that he ordered a\ngreat banquet.\n\n'Here,' said the princess at the banquet, 'is a little of my father's\nchoicest wine, which I had with me in the palace when it was brought\nhither,' and she poured out to him to drink of the wine mixed with\nopium.\n\nAfter this, when the wizard went to bed, he was heavy and took no\nnotice what she did, and thus she put the stone under his pillow. No\nsooner did he, therefore, lay his head on the pillow than he gave\nthree terrible yells, turned himself round and round three times,\nand was dead.\n\nThere was no need to call the prince, for he had heard the death\nyells, and immediately came up. They found the lantern, after they\nhad hunted everywhere in vain, tied on to the magician's body under\nall his clothes, for he had hid it there that he might never part\nwith it. By its power Cajusse ordered the palace to be removed back\nto its place, and there they lived happily for ever afterwards.\n\n\n[The introduction into this story of the dog to be appeased with\na sop, and the hydra to be slain, no trace of either occurring in\n'Aladdin's Lamp,' is noticeable; the incident of the unjewelled window\nloses its point, probably through want of memory. The transporting\nthe palace into the middle of the sea is a novel introduction; but\nthe most remarkable change is in the mode of compassing the death\nof the magician. This episode as here described enters into a vast\nnumber of tales. It occurs in a Hungarian one I have in MS.:--A\nking directs in dying that his three sons shall go out to learn\nexperience by adventure before they succeed to the throne. The first\ntwo nights of the journey the two elder brothers keep watch in turn,\nwhile the others sleep, and each kills a dragon. The third night,\nIstv\u00e1n (Stephen), the youngest, keeps watch, and is enticed away by\nthe cries for help of a frog, which he delivers, but when he comes\nback the watch-fire is out. He has now to wander in search of fresh\nfire; he sees a spark in the distance and makes for it; by the way\nhe meets 'Dame Midnight,' who tells him the fire is a week's journey\noff, so he binds her to a tree, and the same with 'The Lady Dawn,'\nso that it might not be day before his return. In a week he reaches\nthe fire, but three giants guard it, who are laying siege to a v\u00e1r\n(fortress) to obtain possession of three beautiful maidens, whom\nthey destined to be the brides of the King of the Dwarfs and of the\nvery two dragons his brothers had killed. But before they give him\nof their fire they say he must help them in the siege. He, however,\nkills them by stratagem, and makes his way into the princesses'\nsleeping apartment, takes three pledges of his having been there,\nand returns to his brothers. They continue their wanderings till they\ncome to an inn where the three princesses and the king their father\nhave established themselves in disguise, and make all who pass that\nway tell the tale of their adventures as a means of discovering who\nit was delivered them from the giants. The princes make themselves\nknown, and the king bestows his daughters on them. As they drive\nhome with their brides, they pass the Dwarf-King in a ditch by the\nroadside, who implores them to deliver him. The two elder brothers\ntake no notice. Istv\u00e1n stops and helps him out. The dwarf with his\nsupernatural strength thrusts Istv\u00e1n back into the ditch, and drives\noff with his bride. Istv\u00e1n sets out to search after and recover her;\nhe meets the frog he delivered, who gives him supernatural aid, and\nleads him through heroic adventures in which he does service to other\npersons and animals, who in turn assist him by directing him to the\npalace of the Dwarf-King. Here exactly the same scene occurs between\nIstv\u00e1n and his bride as between Cajusse and the sultan's daughter,\nand they lay the same plan. But the Dwarf-King is more astute than the\nmagician, and he at first tells her that his life's safety lies in his\nsceptre, on which she makes him give her the sceptre, 'that she may\ntake care of it,' in reality intending to give it up to Istv\u00e1n. When\nhe sees her so anxious for his safety, he tells her it is not in\nthe sceptre, but he does not yet tell the truth; he next says it is\nin the royal mantle, and then in the crown (incidents proper to the\nversion of Hungary, which sets so great store by the royal crown and\nmantle). Ultimately he confides that it resides in a golden cockchafer,\ninside a golden cock, inside a golden sheep, inside a golden stag,\nin the ninety-ninth sziget (island). She communicates all this to\nIstv\u00e1n. He overcomes the above-named series of golden animals by the\naid of the animals he lately assisted, and thus recovers his bride.\n\nAll these incidents (somewhat differently worked in), occur in the\nNorse tale of 'The Giant who had no Heart in His Body,' and in the\nRussian 'Koschei the Deathless,' and in many others.\n\nI have other of the 'Arabian Night' stories, told with the local\ncolouring of characters and incidents proper to the neighbourhood of\nRome; particularly various versions of 'The Forty Thieves,' leading\nto a number of Brigand stories, for which I have not space left in\nthis volume.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDARY TALES AND ESEMPJ.\n\n\nWHEN JESUS CHRIST WANDERED ON EARTH.\n\n\n1\n\nOne day the Madonna was carrying the Bambino through a lupin-field,\nand the stalks of the lupins rustled so, that she thought it was\na robber coming to kill the Santo Bambino. [139] She turned, and\nsent a malediction over the lupin-field, and immediately the lupins\nall withered away and fell flat and dry on the ground, so that she\ncould see there was no one hidden there. When she saw there was\nno one hidden there, she sent a benediction over the lupin-field,\nand the lupins all stood up straight again, fair and flourishing,\nand with tenfold greater produce than they had at the first.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nOne day when Jesus Christ was grown up, and went about preaching,\nHe came to a certain village and knocked at the first door, and said,\n'Give me a lodging.' [140] But the master of the house shut the door\nin his face, saying, 'Here is nothing for you.' He came to the next\nhouse, and received the same answer; and the next, and the next,\nno one in all the village would take Him in. Weary and footsore,\nHe came to the cottage of a poor little old woman, who lived all\nalone on the outskirts, and knocked there. 'Who is there?' [141]\nasked the old woman. 'The Master with the Apostles,' answered Jesus\nChrist. The old woman opened the door, and let them all in. 'Have\nyou no fire?' asked Jesus Christ. 'No fire have I,' answered the old\nwoman. Then Jesus Christ blessed the hearth, and there came a pile of\nwood on it, and a fire was soon made. 'Have you nothing to give us\nto eat?' asked Jesus Christ. 'Nothing worth offering you,' answered\nthe old woman; 'here is a little fish' (it was a little fish, that,\nnot so long as my hand) 'and some crusts of bread, which they gave\nme at the eating-shop in charity just now, and that's all I have;'\nand she set both on the table. 'Have you no wine?' again asked Jesus\nChrist. 'Only this flask of wine and water they gave me there, too;'\nand she set it before Him.\n\nThen Jesus Christ blessed all the things, and handed them round the\ntable, and they all dined off them, and at the end there remained\njust the same as at the beginning. When they had finished, He said\nto the old woman, 'This fire, with the bread, and the fish, and the\nwine, will always remain to you, and never diminish as long as you\nlive. And now follow Me a little way.'\n\nThe Master went on before with His Apostles, and the old woman followed\nafter, a little way behind. And behold, as they walked along, all the\nhouses of that inhospitable village fell down one after the other,\nand all the inhabitants were buried under them. Only the cottage\nof the old woman was left standing. When the judgment was complete,\nJesus Christ said to her, 'Now, return home.' [142]\n\nAs she turned to go, St. Peter said to her, 'Ask for the salvation of\nyour soul.' And she went and asked it of Jesus Christ, and He replied,\n'Let it be granted you!'\n\n\n\n\n3\n\nOne day as He was going into the Temple, He saw two men quarrelling\nbefore the door: a young man and an old man. The young man wanted to go\nin first, and the old man was vindicating the honour of his grey hairs.\n\n'What is the matter?' asked Jesus Christ; and they showed Him wherefore\nthey strove.\n\nJesus Christ said to the young man, 'If you are desirous to go in\nfirst, you must accept the state to which honour belongs,' and He\ntouched him, and he became an old man, bowed in gait, feeble, and\ngrey-haired, while to the old man He gave the compensation for the\ninsult he had received, by investing him with the youth of the other.\n\n\n\n\n4\n\nIn the days when Jesus Christ roamed the earth, He found Himself\none day with His disciples in the Campagna, far from anything like\nhome. The only shelter in sight was a cottage of wretched aspect. Jesus\nChrist knocked at the door.\n\n'Who is there?' said a tremulous voice from within.\n\n'The Master with the disciples,' answered Jesus Christ. The man didn't\nknow what He meant; nevertheless, the tone was too gentle to inspire\nfear, so he opened, and let them all in.\n\n'Have you no fire to give us?' asked Jesus Christ.\n\n'I'm only a poor beggar. I never have any fire,' said the man.\n\n'But these poor things,' said Jesus Christ, 'are stiff with cold and\nweariness; they must have a fire.'\n\nThen Jesus Christ stood on the hearth, and blessed it, and there\ncame a great blazing fire of heaped-up wood. When the beggar saw it,\nhe fell on his knees in astonishment.\n\n'Have you no food to set before us?' asked Jesus Christ.\n\n'I have one loaf of Indian corn, [143] which is at your service,'\nanswered the beggar.\n\n'One loaf is not enough,' answered Jesus Christ; 'have you nothing\nelse at all?'\n\n'Nothing at all about the place that can be eaten,' answered the\nbeggar. 'Leastwise, I have one ewe, which is at your service.'\n\n'That will do,' answered Jesus Christ; and he sent St. Peter to help\nthe man to prepare it for dressing.\n\n'Here is the mutton,' said the beggar; 'but I cannot cook it, because\nI have no lard.' [144]\n\n'Look!' said Jesus Christ.\n\nThe beggar looked on the hearth, and saw everything that was necessary\nready for use.\n\n'Now, then, bring the wine and the bread,' said Jesus Christ, when\nthe meat was nearly ready.\n\n'There is the only loaf I have,' said the beggar, setting the polenta\nloaf on the table; 'but, as for wine, I never see such a thing.'\n\n'Is there none in the cellar?' asked Jesus Christ.\n\n'In the cellar are only a dozen empty old broken wine-jars that\nhave been there these hundred years; they are well covered with\nmould.' Jesus Christ told St. Peter to go down and see, and when he\nwent down with the beggar, there was a whole ovenful of fresh-baked\nbread boiling hot, [145] and beyond, in the cellar, the jars, instead\nof being broken and musty, were all standing whole and upright,\nand filled with excellent wine.\n\n'See how you told us falsely,' said St. Peter, to tease him.\n\n'Upon my word, it was even as I said, before you came.'\n\n'Then it is the Master who has done these wonderful things,' answered\nSt. Peter. 'Praise Him!'\n\nNow the meat was cooked and ready, and they all sat down to table;\nbut Jesus Christ took a bowl and placed it in the midst of the table\nand said, 'Let all the bones be put into this bowl;' and when they\nhad finished he took the bones and threw them out of the window,\nand said, 'Behold, I give you an hundred for one.' After that they\nall laid them down and slept.\n\nIn the morning when they opened the door to go, behold there were an\nhundred sheep grazing before the door.\n\n'These sheep are yours,' said Jesus Christ; 'moreover, as long as\nyou live, neither the bread in the oven nor the wine in the cellar\nshall fail;' and He passed out and the disciples after Him.\n\nBut St. Peter remained behind, and said to the man who had entertained\nthem, 'The Master has rewarded you generously, but He has one greater\ngift yet which He will give you if you ask Him.'\n\n'What is it? tell me what is it?' said the beggar.\n\n'The salvation of your soul,' answered St. Peter.\n\n'Signore! Signore! add to all Thou hast given this further, the\nsalvation of my soul,' cried the man.\n\n'Let it be granted thee,' [146] answered the Lord, and passed on\nHis way.\n\n\n\n\n5\n\nAnother day Jesus Christ and His disciples dined at a tavern. [147]\n\n'What's to pay?' said Jesus Christ, when they had finished their meal.\n\n'Nothing at all,' answered the host.\n\nBut the host had a little hunchback son, who said to him, 'I know some\nhave found it answer to give these people food instead of making them\npay for it; but suppose they forget to give us anything, we shall be\nworse off than if we had been paid in the regular way. I will tell\nyou what I'll do now, so as to have a hold over them. I'll take one\nof our silver spoons and put it in the bag that one of them carries,\nand accuse them of stealing it.'\n\nNow St. Peter was a great eater, and when anything was left over from a\ngood meal he was wont to put it by in a bag against a day when they had\nnothing. Into this bag therefore the hunchback put the silver spoon.\n\nWhen they had gone on a little way the young hunchback ran after them\nand said to Jesus Christ,--\n\n'Signore! one of these with you has stolen a spoon from us.'\n\n'You are mistaken, friend; there is not one of them who would do such\na thing.'\n\n'Yes,' persevered the hunchback; 'it is that one who took it,' and\nhe pointed to St. Peter.\n\n'I!!' said St. Peter, getting very angry. 'How dare you to say such\na thing of me!'\n\nBut Jesus Christ made him a sign that he should keep silence.\n\n'We will go back to your house and help you to look for what you\nhave lost, for that none of us have taken the spoon is most certain,'\nHe said; and He went back with the hunchback.\n\n'There is nowhere to search,' answered the hunchback, 'but in that\nman's bag; I know it is there, because I saw him take it.'\n\n'Then there's my bag inside out,' said St. Peter, as he cast the\ncontents upon the floor. Of course the silver spoon fell clattering\nupon the bricks.\n\n'There!' said the hunchback, insolently. 'Didn't I tell you it was\nthere? You said it wasn't!'\n\nSt. Peter was so angry he could not trust himself to speak; but Jesus\nChrist answered for him:\n\n'Nay, I said not it was not there, but that none of these had taken\nit. And now we will see who it was put it there.' With that He motioned\nto them all to stand back, while He, standing in the midst and raising\nhis eyes to Heaven, said solemnly,\n\n'Let whoso put it in the bag be turned to stone!'\n\nEven as He spoke the hunchback was turned into stone.\n\n\n\n\n6\n\nThere was another tavern, however, where the host was a different\nsort of man, and not only said he would take nothing when Jesus Christ\nand His disciples dined there, but really would never take anything;\nnor was it that by any miracle he had received advantages of another\nsort, but out of the respect and affection he bore the Master he\ndeemed himself sufficiently paid by the honour of being allowed to\nminister to Him.\n\nOne day when Jesus Christ and His disciples were going away on a\njourney, St. Peter went to this host and said, 'You have been very\nliberal to us all this time: if you were to ask for some gift, now,\nyou would be sure to get it.'\n\n'I don't know that there is anything that I want,' said the host. 'I\nhave a thriving trade, which you see not only supplies all my wants,\nbut leaves me the means of being liberal also; I have no wife to\nprovide for, and no children to leave an inheritance to: so what\nshould I ask for? There is one thing, to be sure, I should like. My\nonly amusement is playing at cards: if He would give me the faculty\nof always winning, I should like that; it isn't that I care for what\none wins, it is that it is nice to win. Do you think I might ask that?'\n\n'I don't know,' said St. Peter, gravely. 'Still you might ask; He is\nvery kind.'\n\nThe host did ask, and Jesus Christ granted his desire. When St. Peter\nsaw how easily He granted it, he said, 'If I were you, I should ask\nsomething more.'\n\n'I really don't know what else I have to ask,' replied the host,\n'unless it be that I have a fig-tree which bears excellent figs, but\nI never can get one of them for myself; they are always stolen before\nI get them. I wish He would order that whoever goes up to steal them\nmight get stuck to the tree till I tell him he may come down.'\n\n'Well,' said St. Peter, 'it is an odd sort of thing to ask, but you\nmight try; He is very kind.'\n\nThe host did ask, and Jesus Christ granted his request. When St. Peter\nsaw that He granted it so easily, he said, 'If I were you I should\nask something more.'\n\n'Do you really think I might?' answered the host. 'There is one thing\nI have wanted to ask all along, only I didn't dare. But you encourage\nme, and He seems to take a pleasure in giving. I have always had a\ngreat wish to live four hundred years.'\n\n'That is certainly a great deal to ask,' said St. Peter, 'but you\nmight try; He is very kind.'\n\nThe host did ask, and Jesus Christ granted his petition, and then\nwent His way with His disciples. St. Peter remained last, and said\nto the host, 'Now run after him, and ask for the salvation of your\nsoul.' ('St. Peter always told them all to ask that,' added the\nnarrator in a confidential tone.)\n\n'Oh, I can't ask anything more, I have asked so much,' said the host.\n\n'But that is just the best thing of all, and what He grants the most\nwillingly,' insisted St. Peter. 'Really?' said the host; and he ran\nafter Jesus Christ, and said, 'Lord! who hast so largely shown me\nThy bounty, grant me further the salvation of my soul.'\n\n'Let it be granted!' said Jesus Christ; and continued His journey.\n\nAll the things the host had asked he received, and life passed away\nvery pleasantly, but still even four hundred years come to an end at\nlast, and with the end of it came Death.\n\n'What! is that you, Mrs. Death, [148] come already?' said the host.\n\n'Why, it's time I should come, I think; it's not often I leave people\nin peace for four hundred years.'\n\n'All right, but don't be in a hurry. I have such a fancy for the\nfigs of that fig-tree of mine there. I wish you would just have the\nkindness to go up and pluck a good provision of them to take with me,\nand by that time I'll be ready to go with you.'\n\n'I've no objection to oblige you so far,' said Mrs. Death; 'only you\nmust mind and be quite ready by the time I do come back.'\n\n'Never fear,' said the host; and Mrs. Death climbed up the fig-tree.\n\n'Now stick there!' said the host, and for all her struggling Mrs. Death\ncould by no means extricate herself any more.\n\n'I can't stay here, so take off your spell; I have my business to\nattend to,' said she.\n\n'So have I,' answered the host; 'and if you want to go about your\nbusiness, you must promise me, on your honour, you will leave me to\nattend to mine.'\n\n'I can't do it, my man! What are you asking? It's more than my place\nis worth. Every man alive has to pass through my hands. I can't let\nany of them off.'\n\n'Well, at all events, leave me alone another four hundred years,\nand then I'll come with you. If you'll promise that, I'll let you\nout of the fig-tree.'\n\n'I don't mind another four hundred years, if you so particularly wish\nfor them; but mind you give me your word of honour you come then,\nwithout giving me all this trouble again.'\n\n'Yes! and here's my hand upon it,' said the host, as he handed\nMrs. Death down from the fig-tree.\n\nAnd so he went on to live another four hundred years. ('For you know\nin those times men lived to a very great age,' was the running gloss\nof the narrator.)\n\nThe end of the second four hundred years came too, and then Mrs. Death\nappeared again. 'Remember your promise,' she said, 'and don't try\nany trick on me this time.'\n\n'Oh, yes! I always keep my word,' said the host, and without more\nado he went along with her.\n\nAs she was carrying him up to Paradise, they passed the way which led\ndown to Hell, and at the opening sat the Devil, receiving souls which\nhis ministers brought to him from all parts. He was marshalling them\ninto ranks, and ticketing them ready to send off in batches to the\ndistinct place for each.\n\n'You seem to have got plenty of souls there, Mr. Devil,' said the\nhost. 'Suppose we sit down and play for them?'\n\n'I've no objection,' said the Devil. 'Your soul against one of\nthese. If I win, you go with them; if you win, one of them goes\nwith you.'\n\n'That's it,' said the host, and picking out a nice-looking soul,\nhe set him for the Devil's stake.\n\nOf course the host won, and the nice-looking soul was passed round\nto his side of the table.\n\n'Shall we have another game?' said the host, quite cock-a-hoop.\n\nThe Devil hesitated for a moment, but finally he yielded. The host\npicked out a soul that took his fancy, for the Devil's stake, and\nthey sat down to play again, with the same result.\n\nSo they went on and on till the host had won fifteen thousand souls\nof the Devil. 'Come,' said Death when they had got as far as this,\n'I really can't wait any longer. I never had to do with anyone who\ntook up so much time as you. Come along!'\n\nSo the host bowed excuses to the Devil for having had all the luck, and\nwent cheerfully the way Mrs. Death led, with all his fifteen thousand\nsouls behind him. Thus they arrived at the gate of Paradise. There\nwasn't so much business going on there as at the other place, and\nthey had to ring before anyone appeared to open the door.\n\n'Who's there?' said St. Peter.\n\n'He of the four hundred years!'\n\n'And what is all that rabble behind?' asked St. Peter.\n\n'Souls that I have won of the Devil for Paradise,' answered the host.\n\n'Oh, that won't do at all, here!' said St. Peter.\n\n'Be kind enough to carry the message up to your Master,' responded\nthe host.\n\nSt. Peter went up to Jesus Christ. 'Here is he to whom you gave four\nhundred years of life,' he said; 'and he has brought fifteen thousand\nother souls, who have no title at all to Paradise, with him.'\n\n'Tell him he may come in himself,' said Jesus Christ, 'but he has\nnothing to do to meddle with the others.'\n\n'Tell Him to be pleased to remember that when He came to my eating-shop\nI never made any difficulty how many soever He brought with Him,\nand if He had brought an army I should have said nothing,' answered\nthe host; and St. Peter took up that message too.\n\n'That is true! that is right!' answered Jesus Christ. 'Let them all\nin! let them all in!'\n\n\n\n\n7\n\nPRET' OLIVO. [149]\n\nWhen Jesus Christ was on earth, He lodged one night at a priest's\nhouse, and when He went away in the morning He offered to give His\nhost, in reward for his hospitality, whatever he asked. What Pret'\nOlivo (for that was his host's name) asked for was that he should live\na hundred years, and that when Death came to fetch him he should be\nable to give her what orders he pleased, and that she must obey him.\n\n'Let it be granted!' said Jesus Christ.\n\nA hundred years passed away, and then, one morning early, Death came.\n\n'Pret' Olivo! Pret' Olivo!' cried Death, 'are you ready? I'm come\nfor you at last.'\n\n'Let me say my mass first,' said Pret' Olivo; 'that's all.'\n\n'Well, I don't mind that,' answered Death; 'only mind it isn't a long\none, because I've got so many people to fetch to-day.'\n\n'A mass is a mass,' answered Pret' Olivo; 'it will be neither longer\nnor shorter.'\n\nAs he went out, however, he told his servant to heap up a lot of wood\non the hearth and set fire to it. Death went to sit down on a bench\nin the far corner of the chimney, and by-and-by the wood blazed up\nand she couldn't get away any more. In vain she called to the servant\nto come and moderate the fire. 'Master told me to heap it up, not to\nmoderate it,' answered the servant; and so there was no help. Death\ncontinued calling in desperation, and nobody came. It was impossible\nwith her dry bones to pass the blaze, so there she had to stay.\n\n'Oh, dear! oh, dear! what can I do?' she kept saying; 'all this time\neverybody is stopped dying! Pret' Olivo! Pret' Olivo! come here.'\n\nAt last Pret' Olivo came in.\n\n'What do you mean by keeping me here like this?' said Death; 'I told\nyou I had so much to do.'\n\n'Oh, you want to go, do you?' said Pret' Olivo, quietly.\n\n'Of course I do. Tell some one to clear away those burning logs,\nand let me out.'\n\n'Will you promise me to leave me alone for another hundred years if\nI do?'\n\n'Yes, yes; anything you like. I shall be very glad to keep away from\nthis place for a hundred years.'\n\nThen he let her go, and she set off running with those long thin legs\nof hers.\n\nThe second hundred years came to an end.\n\n'Are you ready, Pret' Olivo?' said Death one morning, putting her\nhead in at the door.\n\n'Pretty nearly,' answered Pret' Olivo. 'Meantime, just take that\nbasket, and gather me a couple of figs to eat before I go.'\n\nAs she went away he said, 'Stick to the tree' (but not so that she\ncould hear it); for you remember he had power given him to make her\ndo what he liked. She had therefore to stick to the tree.\n\n'Well, Lady Death, are you never going to bring those figs?' cried\nPret' Olivo after a time.\n\n'How can I bring them, when you know I can't get down from this\ntree? Instead of making game of me, come and take me down.'\n\n'Will you leave me alone another hundred years if I do?'\n\n'Yes, yes; anything you like. Only make haste and let me go.'\n\nThe third hundred years came to an end, and Death appeared again. 'Are\nyou ready this time, Pret' Olivo?' she cried out as she approached.\n\n'Yes, this time I'll come with you,' answered Pret' Olivo. Then he\nvested himself in the Church vestments, and put a cope on, and took\na pack of cards in his hand, and said to Death, 'Now take me to the\ngate of Hell, for I want to play a game of cards with the Devil.'\n\n'Nonsense!' answered Death. 'I'm not going to waste my time like\nthat. I've got orders to take you to Paradise, and to Paradise you\nmust go.'\n\n'You know you've got orders to obey whatever I tell you,' answered\nPret' Olivo; and Death knew that was true, so she lost no more time\nin disputing, but took him all the way round by the gate of Hell.\n\nAt the gate of Hell they knocked.\n\n'Who's there?' said the Devil.\n\n'Pret' Olivo,' replied Death.\n\n'Out with you, ugly priest!' said the Devil. 'I'm surprised at you,\nDeath, making game of me like that; you know that's not the sort of\nware for my market.' [150]\n\n'Silence, and open the door, ugly Pluto! [151] I'm not come to stay. I\nonly want to have a game of cards with you. Here's my soul for stake on\nmy side, against the last comer on your side,' interposed Pret' Olivo.\n\nPret' Olivo won the game, and hung the soul on to his cope.\n\n'We must have another game,' said the Devil.\n\n'With all my heart!' replied Pret' Olivo; and he won another\nsoul. Another and another he won, and his cope was covered all over\nwith the souls clinging to it.\n\nMeantime, Death thought it was going on rather too long, so she looked\nthrough the keyhole, and, finding they were just beginning another\ngame, she cried out loudly;\n\n'It's no use playing any more, for I'm not going to be bothered to\ncarry all those souls all the way up to Heaven--a likely matter,\nindeed!'\n\nBut Pret' Olivo went on playing without taking any notice of her;\nand he hung them on to his beretta, till at last you could hardly see\nhim at all for the number of souls he had clinging to him. There was\nno place for any more, so at last he stopped playing.\n\n'I'm not going to take all those other souls,' said Death when he\ncame out; 'I've only got orders to take you.'\n\n'Then take me,' answered Pret' Olivo.\n\nDeath saw that the souls were all hung on so that she could not take\nhim without taking all the rest; so away she went with the lot of them,\nwithout disputing any more.\n\nAt last they arrived at the Gate of Paradise. St. Peter opened the\ndoor when they knocked; but when he saw who was there he shut the\ndoor again.\n\n'Make haste!' said Death; 'I've no time to waste.'\n\n'Why did you waste your time in bringing up souls that were not\nproperly consigned to you?' answered St. Peter.\n\n'It wasn't I brought them, it was Pret' Olivo. And your Master charged\nme I was to do whatever he told me.'\n\n'My Master! Oh, then, I'm out of it,' said St. Peter. 'Only wait a\nminute, while I just go and ask Him whether it is so.' St. Peter ran\nto ask; and receiving an affirmative answer, came back and opened\nthe gate, and they all got in.\n\n\n\n\n8\n\nDOMINE QUO VADIS.\n\n'You know, of course, about St. Peter, when they put him in the\nprisons here; he found a way of escaping through the \"catacomboli,\"\nand just as he had got out into the open road again he met Jesus Christ\ncoming towards him carrying His cross. And St. Peter asked Him what\nhe was doing going into the \"catacomboli.\" But Jesus Christ answered,\n\"I am not going into the 'catacomboli' to stay; I am going back by\nthe way you came to be crucified over again, since you refuse to die\nfor the flock.\" Then St. Peter turned and went all the way back,\nand was crucified with his head downwards, for he said he was not\nworthy to die in the same way as his Master.'\n\n\n[Counterparts of these stories abound in the collections of all\ncountries; in the Norse, and Gaelic, and Russian, more of the pagan\nelement seems to stick to them. In Grimm's are some with both much\nand little of it. From Tirol I have given two, which are literally\nfree from it, in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer;' and I\nhave one or two picked up for me by a friend in Brittany, of which\nthe same may be said. On the other hand, we meet them again in another\nform in that large group of strange compounds, of which 'Il R\u00e8 Moro,'\np. 97, &c., are the Roman representatives, and 'Marienkind,' pp. 7-12,\n'Grimm Kinder und Hausm\u00e4hrchen,' ed. 1870, the link between them. In\nthe minds of the Roman narrators, however, I am quite clear no such\nconnexion exists. See also p. 207 infra.\n\nOne of the quaintest legends of this class is given in Scheible's\n'Schaltjahr.' It is meant for a charm to drive away wolves.]\n\n\n    'Lord Jesus Christ and St. Peter went in the morning out.\n    As our Lady went on before she said (turning about),\n    \"Ah, dear Lord! whither must we go in and out?\n    We must over hill and dale (roundabout).\n    May God guard the while my flock (devout).\n    Let not St. Peter go his keys without;\n    But take them and lock up the wild dogs' [152] snout,\n    That they no bone of them all may flout.\"'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPIETRO BAILLIARDO. [153]\n\n\n1\n\nWhat! Never heard of Pietro Bailliardo! Surely you must, if you\never heard anything at all. Why, everybody knows about Pietro\nBailliardo! Why, he was here and there and everywhere in Rome; and\nturned everybody's head, and they have his books now, that they took\naway from him, locked up in the Holy Office. [154]\n\nPietro Bailliardo was a scholar boy, and went to school like other\nboys. One day he found at a bookstall a book of divination; [155]\nwith this he was able to do whatever he would, and wherever he was,\nthere the Devil was in command.\n\nHe fell in love with a girl, and she would have nothing to do with\nhim; and one day afterwards they found her on Mont Cavallo with a\ngreat fire burning round her, and everyone who passed had to stir\nthe fire whether he would or not.\n\nWhatever he wanted he ordered to come and it came to him, and nobody\ncould resist him.\n\nAs to putting him in prison it was no manner of use. One day when\nthey had put him in prison he took a piece of charcoal and drew a\nboat on the white prison wall, then he jumped into it, and said to\nall the other prisoners, 'Get in too,' and they got in, and he rowed\naway, and next morning they were all loose about Rome. But there was\nan old man asleep in a corner of the prison, and the guards came to\nhim and said, 'Where are all the prisoners gone?' And he told them\nabout Pietro Bailliardo drawing the boat on the prison wall with the\ncharcoal and their all getting away in it. 'And why didn't you go\ntoo?' asked the guards. 'Because I was asleep so comfortably I did\nnot want to move,' said he. ('But then, how did he see it all unless\nPietro Bailliardo had him put under a spell on purpose that he might\ntell the authorities how he had defied them?' added the narrator.)\n\nAnother time again they shut him up in prison, and the next morning\nwhen they came to look for him they found nothing but an ass's head in\nhis place, which he had left there just to show his contempt for them.\n\nOne day a zealous friar met him and warned him to repent. 'What have\nI to repent of?' said he. 'I can hear mass better than you, for I can\nhear mass in three places at once.' Then he went away and made the\nDevil take him to Constantinople and Paris to hear mass at each while\nall at one and the same time he was hearing one at Rome too! Then\nhe came and told the friar what a grand thing he had done. But the\nfriar told him it was worse than not hearing mass at all to attempt\nto use diabolical arts in that way.\n\nAfter that one day he was going up past the church of SS. John and Paul\n[156] when the Devil met him.\n\n'Now,' said the Devil, 'you have had your swing long enough; I have\ncome to fetch you!'\n\nWhen Pietro Bailliardo, who had set all the world at defiance all\nhis life, saw the Devil and heard him say he had come to fetch him,\nhe was seized with such terror that he began to repent, and ran inside\nthe church. The Devil durst not follow him thither, but waited outside\nthinking he would soon be turned out.\n\nBut Pietro Bailliardo took up a great stone and went and kneeled down\nbefore the crucifix and smote his bare breast with the big stone,\nsaying the while, 'Behold! merciful Lord, I beat my breast with this\nstone till Thou bow Thy head in token that Thou forgive me.'\n\nAnd he went on beating his breast till the blood ran down, and at last\nour Lord had compassion on him and bowed His head from the cross to\nhim, and he died there. So the Devil did not get him.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\n'You have told me so many stories, why have you never told me anything\nabout Pietro Bailliardo--don't you know about him?'\n\n'Of course I know about him. Who in Rome doesn't know about him? but\nI can't remember it all. I know he had the book of divination, and\ncould make the Devil do whatever he chose by its means. And then\none day, I don't remember by what circumstance, he was led to do\npenance; but he would do it in his own way, not in the right way,\nand he made a vow to the Madonna that he would pay a visit to some\nshrine in Rome and to S. Giacomo di Galizia, [157] and to the Santa\nCasa di Loreto all in the same night. As devils can fly through the\nair at a wonderful pace he called upon a devil by his divining book\nand told him what he wanted; then he got on the back of the devil and\nrode away through the air and actually visited all three in one night.\n\n'But that sort of penance was no penance at all. After that he did\npenance in right earnest at some church, I forget which.'\n\n'Was it SS. John and Paul?' I asked.\n\n'Yes, to be sure; SS. John and Paul. And you knew it all the time,\nand yet have been asking me!'\n\n\n\n\n3\n\n'Do you want to know about Pietro Bailliardo too?' said the old man\nwho had given me No. 2 of San Giovanni Bocca d'oro. 'Oh, yes; I did\nknow a deal about him. This is what I can remember.\n\n'Pietro Bailliardo had a bond [158] with the Devil, by which he was\nas rich as he could be, and had whatever he wanted; but the day came\nwhen the compact came to an end, and Pietro Bailliardo quailed as that\nday approached, for he knew that after that time the Devil could take\nhim and he could not resist.\n\n'Before noon on that day, therefore, he set out to go to St. Paul's.'\n\n'To SS. John and Paul?' asked I, full of the former versions.\n\n'No, no! to the great St. Paul's outside the walls, where the monks\nof St. Benedict are; and he waited there all day, for before the\ntime was out the Devil couldn't take him. At last evening came on,\nand the chierico [159] wanted to shut the church up; so he told Pietro\nBailliardo he must go, and showed him to the door. But when he came\nto the door, he found the Devil there waiting for him dressed like\na paino. [160] When he saw that, no power of the chierico could make\nhim go; so the chierico was obliged to call the Father Abbot.\n\n'To the Father Abbot Pietro Bailliardo told his whole story, and the\nFather Abbot said, \"If that is so, come with me to the Inquisition,\nand tell your story there and receive absolution.\" Then he sent for a\ncarriage, and said to the driver, \"Be of good heart, for I have many\nrelics of saints with me, and whatever strange thing you may see or\nhear by the way, have no fear, it shall not harm you.\"\n\n'The Devil saw all this, and was in a great fury, for he has no power\nto alter future events, and so he couldn't help Pietro Bailliardo\ngoing into the church for sanctuary before the time was up. He got a\nnumber of devils together, therefore, and made unearthly and terrible\nnoises all the way. But the driver had confidence in the word of the\nAbbot, and drove on without heeding. Only when they got to the bridge\nof St. Angelo the noise was so tremendous he got quite bewildered;\nmoreover the bridge heaved and rocked as though it were going to\nbreak in twain.\n\n'\"Fear nothing, fear nothing! Nothing will harm you,\" said the Father\nAbbot; and the driver, having confidence in his words, drove on without\nheeding, and they arrived safely at the Palace of the Inquisition.\n\n'The Father Abbot now delivered Pietro Bailliardo over to the\nPenitentiary, to whom, moreover, he made confession of his terrible\ncrimes, and begged to remain to perform his penance and obtain\nreconciliation with God.\n\n'But as Pietro Bailliardo had been used to follow his own strange\nways all his life, he must needs now perform his penance too in his\nown strange way. Therefore he made a vow that he would perform such a\npenance as man never performed before; and this penance was to visit,\nall in one night, the SS. Crocifisso in the Chapel of the Holy Office,\nS. Giacomo di Galizia, and the sanctuary of Cirollo. All in one night!'\n\n'Stop! S. Giacomo di Galizia I know; we call it S. James of\nCompostella; but the sanctuary of Cirollo! I never heard of that;\nwhere is it?'\n\n'Oh, Cirollo is all the same as if you said Loreto; the Madonna di\nLoreto; it is all one.'\n\nI appealed to one sitting there who, I knew, had been brought up\nat Loreto.\n\n'Yes, yes,' she said. 'That is all right; Cirollo is just a walk from\nLoreto. Noi altri when living at Loreto often go there, but those who\ncome from far, most often don't; so we have a saying, \"Who goes to\nLoreto and not to Cirollo, he sees the mother, but not the son.\" [161]\n'It is a saying, and nothing more.'\n\n'Basta!' interposed the old man, who, like other old people, was\napt to forget the thread of his story if interrupted. 'Basta! it\ndoesn't matter: they were anyhow three places very far apart. [162]\nSo Pietro Bailliardo, who couldn't get out of his habit of commanding\nthe devils, called up a number of them, and said, \"Which of all\nyou fiends can go the fastest?\" and the devils, accustomed to obey\nhim, answered the one before the other, some one way some another,\neach anxious to content him: \"I, like lightning,\" said one; \"I,\nlike the wind,\" said another; but \"I--I can go as fast as thought,\"\n[163] said another. \"Ho! Here! You fiend. You, who can travel as\nfast as thought. You come here, and take me to-night to St. James of\nCompostella, and to the sanctuary of Cirollo, and bring me back here\nto the Chapel of the Holy Office before morning breaks.\"\n\n'He spoke imperiously, and sprang on to the devil's back, and all\nwas done so quickly the devil had no time for thought or hesitation.\n\n'Away flew the devil, and Pietro Bailliardo on his back, all the\nway to St. James of Compostella, and, whr-r-r-r all the way to the\nsanctuary of Cirollo, fast, fast as thought. Then suddenly the devil\nstopped midway. An idea had struck him. \"What had a devil to do with\ngoing about visiting shrines in this way; no harm had been done to\nthe sacred place; not a stone had been injured; [164] why then had\nthey gone to S. Giacomo; why were they going to Cirollo?\"\n\n'\"Tell me, Ser Bailliardo,\" said he, \"on whose account am I sweating\nlike this? is it for your private account, or for my master's; because\nI only obey you so long as you command in his name, and how can it\nserve him to be doing pilgrim's work?\"\n\n'\"Go on, ugly monster! don't prate,\" [165] answered Pietro Bailliardo,\nand gave him at the same time a kick in each flank; and such was his\nempire over him that the devil durst say no more, and completed the\nstrange pilgrimage even as he had commanded. [166]\n\n'Thus even in his penitence Pietro Bailliardo had the devils subject\nto him. But after that he did penance in right good earnest, only he\nchose a strange way of his own again.\n\n'He knelt before the Crucifix in the Chapel of the Inquisition,\nand he took a great stone and beat his breast with it and said,\n\"Lord, behold my repentance; I smite my breast thus till Thou forgive\nme.\" And when the blood flowed down the Lord had compassion on him\nand bowed His head upon the cross and said, \"I have forgiven thee!\"\n\n'After that he died in peace.'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nS. GIOVANNI BOCCA D'ORO.\n\n\n1\n\nSt. John of the Golden Mouth was another famous penitent we had here\nin Rome. He had treated a number of young girls shamefully, and then\nkilled them.\n\nBut one day the grace of God touched him, and he went out into the\nCampagna, to a solitary place, and there, with a wattle of rushes,\nhe made himself a hut, and lived there doing penance far, far away\nfrom any human habitation.\n\nOne day a king, and his wife, and his sons, and his daughter all\nwent out to hunt. They got overtaken by a storm, and separated; some\nhasted home in one direction, and some in another, but the daughter\nthey could not find anywhere, and when they had searched everywhere\nfor many days and could not find her, they gave her up for lost.\n\nBut she, as she was running, had seen the hut of St. John of the\nGolden Mouth, and knocked at the door.\n\n'Begone!' shouted the penitent, thinking it was the Devil come to\ntempt him.\n\nBut she continued knocking.\n\n'Begone! Out into the wild! nor disturb my peace, Evil One!' shouted\nhe again.\n\n'I am not the Evil One,' answered the princess; 'I am only a woman;\nI have lost my way, and crave shelter from the storm.'\n\nWhen he heard that, he got up and let her in; but when he saw her, he\ncould not resist treating her as he had treated the other maidens. Then\nhe killed her, and threw her body into a well.\n\nBut the next day, when he came to think of what he had done, he said\nto himself,\n\n'How is it possible that I, who have come here to do penance for\nmy crimes, should out here, even in my penitential hut, commit the\nsame crime again? I must go further from temptation, and do deeper\npenance yet.'\n\nSo he left the shelter of his hut, and all his clothes, and went\ninto the wild country and lived with the wild beasts, and became\nlike one of them. After many years he grew quite accustomed to go\non all fours, and his body was all covered with hair like a lion's,\nand he lost the use of speech.\n\nThen, one day the same king went out hunting. Suddenly there was a\ngreat cry of the dogs. They had found an animal of which the huntsmen\nhad never seen the like before. So strange was it, that they said, we\nmust not kill it, but must bring it to the king. With much difficulty\nthey whipped the dogs off, and they brought it to the king, so like\na four-footed creature had San Giovanni Bocca d'oro grown.\n\nNeither could the king make out what kind of creature it was; so he\ntold the huntsmen to put a chain on it, and bring it to the palace.\n\nWhen they got home to the palace, everyone was astonished at the\nappearance of the creature the huntsmen had with them, and they called\nout with such loud exclamations that the queen, who was ill in bed,\nheard them, and she asked what it was about. When they told her, she\nwas seized with a violent desire to see the creature. But they said she\nmust by no means see it, being ill; but the more they opposed her wish,\nthe more vehement she was to see it, till, at last, the nurses said\nit would do more harm to continue refusing her than to let her see it.\n\nSo they led the creature by the chain into her room, and placed him\nby her bedside.\n\nWhen the queen saw him, she said, 'This is no four-footed beast, but a\nman, like one of you.' And she spoke to him, and asked him to say who\nhe was; but he had lost the use of speech, and could not answer her.\n\nThen the baby that was lying on the pillow by her side, just born,\nraised its head, and said out loud, so that all could hear, in a\nvoice plain and clear--\n\n'Giovanni Bocca d'oro, God hath forgiven thee thy sins and iniquities.'\n\nThe queen was yet more astonished when she heard her new-born babe\nspeak thus, and she asked St. John what it could mean. When she saw\nhe could not answer her, she ordered that they should give him pen\nand paper.\n\nThen, though they gave him a common pen, all he wrote appeared in\nletters of shining gold, and he wrote down all that I have told\nyou. Moreover, he bid them send to the well where he had thrown the\nbody of the princess, and fetch her back.\n\nWhen they had done so, they found her whole and sound, and only\na little cicatriced wound in her throat. Then they asked her in\nastonishment how she had lived in that dark, damp well all these years.\n\nBut she answered, 'Every day there came to me a beautiful Roman\nmatron in shining apparel, and she brought me food and consoled me,\nand after she had been there the well was bright, and sweet, and\nperfumed.' And they knew that it must have been the Madonna.\n\nAs soon as she was thus restored to her parents, and had declared\nthese things, San Giovanni Bocca d'oro died in peace, for God had\nforgiven him.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\n'Ah! I knew so many of those things once, but now they are all gone,\nall gone.' This was said by a fine old man, who boasted of having\nthe same number of years and the same name as the Pope.\n\n'I dare say you can tell me something about San Giovanni Bocca d'oro,\nhowever,' I said.\n\n'San Giovanni Bocca d'oro! Of course. Everybody in Rome knows about\nSan Giovanni Bocca d'oro. Do you want to know about him? That's not\na story; that's a fact.'\n\n'Yes, all you know about him I want to hear.'\n\n'It's a long story--too long to remember.'\n\n'Never mind, tell me all you can recall.'\n\n'San Giovanni Bocca d'oro lived in a village--'\n\n'Not in Rome, then!' interposed I.\n\n'Yes, yes, one of the villages about Rome; I don't remember now which,\nif I ever knew, but about Rome of course. One day he saw a beautiful\npeasant girl, and fell in love with her. But he behaved very ill to\nher and never married her, and afterwards killed her and threw her\nbody into a well.\n\n'Afterwards a great sorrow came upon him for what he had done, and\nhe was so ashamed of his sin that he said he would remain no more\nto pollute other Christians with his presence, but went out into the\nCampagna and lived like a four-footed beast; and made a vow that he\nwould remain with his face towards the earth [167] until such time as\nGod should be pleased to let him know, by the mouth of a little child,\nthat His wrath was appeased.\n\n'Many years passed, and San Giovanni continued his penance without\nwearying, always on all fours.\n\n'One day, the nurse of some emperor or king was out with the little\nchild she had charge of when a storm came on, and they ran and\nlost their way. Thus running, they came upon San Giovanni in his\npenance. He looked so wild and strange the nurse would have run away\nfrom him, but the child held out its arms towards him without being\nat all frightened, and, although so young that it had never spoken,\ncried aloud, \"Giovanni, get up, God hath forgiven thee!\"\n\n'At this voice all the people gathered round, and they took him back to\nthe village; and he went straight to the well and blessed it, and there\nrose out of it, all whole and fresh, the maiden whom he had killed.\n\n'Then he sent for pen and tablet, for he had lost the use of speech,\nand wrote down all that had befallen him; and as he wrote all the\nletters became gold. That is why he is called San Giovanni Bocca d'oro.\n\n'And when he had written all these things he died in peace.'\n\n\n\n\n3\n\nIn another version he was living an ordinary life in his 'villa,'\nnot in a penitential cell, when the king's daughter lost her way at\nthe hunt. After the crime he was seized with compunction, and went out\ninto the Campagna, living only on the herbs he could gather with his\nmouth, like an animal, and vowing that he would never again raise his\nhead to Heaven till God gave him some token that He had forgiven him.\n\nAfter eight years the king found him when out hunting, and, taking\nhim for some kind of beast, put him in the stables. The little prince\nwho was just born was taken by to the church to be baptised about this\ntime; and, as they carried him back past the stables, he said aloud,\n'Rise, Giovanni, for God hath forgiven thy sins.' Every one was very\nmuch astonished to hear him speak, and they sent for Giovanni and\nasked him to explain what it meant.\n\nThe rest as in the other versions.\n\n\n\n[I have repeatedly come across this story, but without any material\nvariation from one or other of the versions already given. It would be\ncurious to trace how St. John Chrysostom's name ever became connected\nwith it. Though famous for his penitential life as much as for his\neloquence, and though the four years he passed in the cells of the\nAntiochian cenobites were austere enough, yet his memory is stained\nby no sort of crime. So far from it, he was most carefully brought\nup by a widowed mother, whose exemplary virtues are said to have\noccasioned the exclamation from the Saint's master, 'What wonderful\nwomen have these Christians!'--Butler's 'Lives.' There is something\nlike its termination in that of 'The Fiddler in Hell.'--Ralston's\n'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 299, 300. The years of voluntary silence,\nand the finding of the silent person by a king out hunting, enter\ninto many tales otherwise of another class, as in 'Die Zw\u00f6lf Br\u00fcder'\n(the Twelve Brothers), Grimm, p. 37, and 'Die Sechs Schw\u00e4ne' (the\nSix Swans), p. 191.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDON GIOVANNI.\n\n\nWe had another Giovanni who had done worse things even than these,\nand who never became a penitent at all. Don Giovanni he was\ncalled. Everybody in Rome knew him by the name of Don Giovanni.\n\nAmong the other bad things he did, he killed a great man who was\ncalled the Commendatore; and though he had the crime of murder on his\nconscience he took no account of it, but swaggered about with an air\nof bravado as if he cared for no one.\n\nOne day when he was walking out in the Campagna he saw a great white\nskeleton coming to meet him. It was the skeleton of the commendatore\nwhom he had killed.\n\n'How dy'e do?' said Don Giovanni, with effrontery. 'There's an\nAccademia [168] to-night at my house, I shall be very happy to see\nyou at it;' and he took off his hat with mock gravity.\n\n'I will certainly come,' replied the commendatore in a sepulchral\nvoice; but Don Giovanni burst out laughing.\n\nIn the midst of the Accademia some one knocked. 'All the guests are\narrived,' said the servant, 'yet some one knocks.'\n\n'Never mind, open!' replied Don Giovanni, carelessly. 'Let him in\nwhoever it is.'\n\nThe servant went to open, and came running back to say he could not\nlet the new guest in because he was only the miller, who had come in\nhis white coat all over flour.\n\nAll soon saw, however, that the guest was not the miller, though he\nlooked so white. For it was the white skeleton of the commendatore;\nand it followed the servant into the room. Then fear seized on all\nand they ran away to hide themselves; some behind the door, some\nbehind the curtains, and some under the table.\n\nDon Giovanni stood alone in the middle of the room with his usual\neffrontery, and held out his hand to the skeleton.\n\n'Repent thee!' [169] said the White Skeleton, solemnly.\n\n'A cavalier like me doesn't repent like common beggars!' replied Don\nGiovanni, scornfully.\n\n'Repent!' again repeated the White Skeleton, with more awful emphasis.\n\n'I have something much more amusing to do!' replied Don Giovanni,\nwith a laugh.\n\n'Don Giovanni!' cried the White Skeleton, the third time yet more\nsolemnly. 'Though you took away my life yet am I come to save your\nsoul, if I may, and therefore I say again, Repent! or beware of what\nis to follow.'\n\n'Well done, old fellow! very generous of you!' said Don Giovanni,\nwith a mocking laugh, and again holding out his hand.\n\nThey were his last words. The next minute he gave an awful yell\nwhich might have been heard all over Rome. The White Skeleton had\ndisappeared, and the Devil had come in his place, and had taken Don\nGiovanni by his extended hand and dragged him off.\n\n\n\n[Tullio Dandolo, 'Monachismo e Leggende' p. 314-5, quotes a similar\nlegend from Passavanti, 'Specchio della vera Penitenza.' The story\nof Don Giovanni's misdeeds brought up in the narrator's mind those\nof Pepe (Giuseppe) Mastrilo, famous in the annals of both Spanish\nand Italian bandits. It was, however, only a story of violence and\ncrime without point.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PENANCE OF SAN GIULIANO.\n\n\n'Can you tell me the story of San Giovanni Bocca d'oro?'\n\n'Of course I know about San Giovanni Bocca d'oro, that is, I know he\nwas a great penitent, but I couldn't remember anything, not to tell\nyou about him. But I know about another great penitent. Do you know\nabout the Penitence of San Giuliano? That is a story you'll like if\nyou don't know it already; but it's not a favola, mind.'\n\n'I know there are seven or eight saints at least of the name of Julian,\nbut I don't know the acts of them all; so pray tell me your story.'\n\n'Here it is then.\n\n'San Giuliano was the only son of his parents, who lived at Albano. In\nhis youth he was rather wild, [170] and gave his parents some anxiety;\nbut what gave them more anxiety still on his account was that an\nastrologer had predicted that when he grew up he should kill both\nhis parents.\n\n'\"It is not only for our lives,\" said the parents, \"that we should\nbe concerned--that is no such great matter; but we must put him out\nof the way of committing so great a crime.\"\n\n'Therefore they gave him a horse, and his portion of money, and told\nhim to ride forth and make himself a home in another place. So San\nGiuliano went forth; and thirty years passed, and his parents heard\nno more of him. Thirty years is a long time; many things pass out of\nmind in thirty years. Thus the astrologer's prediction passed out of\ntheir minds; but what never passes out of the mind of a mother is the\nlove of her child, and the mother of San Giuliano yearned to see him\nafter thirty years as though he had gone away but yesterday.\n\n'One day when they were walking in the woods about Albano they saw\na little boy come and climb into a tree and take a bird's nest;\nand presently, after the little boy was gone away with the nest, the\nparent birds came back and fluttered all about, and uttered piercing\ncries for the loss of their young.\n\n'\"See!\" said San Giuliano's mother, taking occasion by this example,\n\"how these unreasoning creatures care for the loss of their young,\nand we live away from our only son and are content.\"\n\n'\"By no means are we content,\" replied the father; \"let us therefore\nrise now and go seek him.\"\n\n'So they put on pilgrims' weeds, and wandered forth to seek their\nson. On and on they went till they came to a place, a city called\nGalizia; [171] and there, as they walk along weary, they meet a gentle\nlady, who looks upon them mildly and compassionately, and says,\n\"Whence do you come, poor pilgrims? what a long way you must have\ntravelled!\" [172]\n\n'And they, cheered by her mode of address and sympathy, make answer,\n\"We have wandered over mountains and plains. We come from the mountain\ntown of Albano. We go about seeking our son Giuliano.\" [173]\n\n'\"Giuliano!\" exclaimed the lady, \"is the name of my husband. Just now\nhe is out hunting, but come in with me and receive my hospitality\nfor love of his name.\" She took them home and washed their feet,\nand refreshed them, and set food before them, and ultimately gave\nthem her own bed to sleep in.\n\n'But the Devil came to Giuliano out hunting, and tempted him with\njealous thoughts about his wife, and tormented him with all manner of\ncalumnious insinuations, so that his mind was filled with fury. Coming\nhome hunting-knife in hand, he rushed into the bedroom, and seeing\ntwo forms in bed, without waiting to know who they were, he plunged\nhis knife into them, and killed them.\n\n'Thus, without knowing it, he had killed both his father and his\nmother.\n\n'Coming out of the room he met his wife, who came to seek him to\nwelcome him.\n\n'\"What, you here!\" he cried. \"Who then are those in the bed, whom I\nhave killed?\"\n\n'\"Killed!\" replied the wife, \"they were a pilgrim couple to whom I\ngave hospitality for love of you, because they wandered seeking a son\nnamed Giuliano.\" Then Giuliano knew what he had done, and was seized\nwith penitence for his hasty yielding to suspicion and anger. So\nstricken with sorrow was he, he was as one dead, nor could anyone\nmove him to speak. Then his wife came to him and said, \"We will do\npenance together; we will lay aside ease and riches, and will devote\nourselves to the poor and needy.\"\n\n'And he embraced her and said, \"It is well spoken.\"\n\n'Near where they lived was a rapid river, and no bridge, and many\nwere drowned in attempting to cross it, and many had a weary way to\nwalk to find a bridge. Said Giuliano, \"We will build a bridge over\nthe river.\" And many pilgrims came to Galizia who had not where to\nrest. Said Giuliano, \"We will build a hospice for poor pilgrims,\nwhere they may be received and be tended according to their needs,\ntill God forgives me.\"\n\n'So they set forth, Giuliano and his wife, to go to Rome to find\nworkmen. [174] But as they went, a troop met them, and came round them,\nand said to them, \"Where are you going?\"\n\n'\"We go to Rome,\" answered Giuliano, \"to find workmen to build\na bridge.\"\n\n'\"We are your men, we are your men; for we have built many bridges\nere now.\" [175]\n\n'Then Giuliano took them back with him, and all in two days they\nbuilt the bridge.\n\n'\"How can this be?\" said Giuliano's wife; \"here is something that is\nnot right,\" for she was so holy that she discerned the Evil One was\nin it.\n\n'\"Be sure, Giuliano,\" she said, \"there is some snare here. Take,\ntherefore, a cheese, hard and round, and roll it along the bridge,\n[176] and send our dog after it; if they get across, well and good.\"\n\n'Giuliano, always prone to accept his wife's prudent counsel, did as\nshe bid him, and rolled the cheese along the bridge, and sent the dog\nafter it; and, see! no sooner were they in the middle of the bridge\nthan the bridge sank in; and they knew that the Devil had built it,\nand that it was no bridge for Christians to go over.\n\n'Then said Giuliano, \"God has not forgiven me yet. Now, let us build\nthe hospice.\"\n\n'They set out, therefore, to go to Rome to find workmen to build\nthe hospice; and when the troop of demons came round them, saying,\n\"We are your workmen, we are your workmen!\" they paid them no heed,\nbut went on to Rome, and fetched workmen thence, and the hospice was\nbuilt; and all the pilgrims who came they received, and gave them\nhospitality, and the whole house was full of pilgrims.\n\n'Then, when the house was full, quite full of pilgrims, there came\nan old man, and begged admission. \"Good man,\" said Giuliano's wife,\n\"it grieves my heart to say so, but there is not a bed, nor so much\nas an empty corner left;\" and the old man said:\n\n'\"If ye cannot receive me, it is because ye have done so much\ncharity to me already; therefore take this staff:\" so he gave them\nhis pilgrim's staff, and went his way.\n\n'But it was Jesus Christ who came in the semblance of that old man;\nand when Giuliano took the staff, behold three flowers blossomed on\nit, and he said:\n\n'\"See! God has forgiven me!\"'\n\n\n\n[Now I see this story in type I am inclined to think it is not strictly\ntraditional, like the rest; but that the narrator had acquired it\nfrom one of the rimed legends mentioned at p. vii.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIMS.\n\n\nThere was a husband and wife, who had been married two or three\nyears, and had no children. At last, they made a vow to S. Giacomo\ndi Galizia that if they only had two children, one boy and one girl,\neven if no more than that, they would be so grateful that they would\ngo a pilgrimage to his shrine, all the way to Galizia.\n\nIn due time two children were born to them, a boy and a girl,\nwho were twins; and they were full of gladness and rejoicing, and\ndevoted themselves to the care of their children, but they forgot\nall about their vow. When many years were passed, and the children\nwere, it maybe, fifteen or sixteen years old, they dreamed a dream,\nboth husband and wife in one night, that St. James appeared, and said:\n\n'You made a vow to visit my shrine if you had two children. Two\nchildren have been born to you, and you have not kept your vow; most\ncertainly evil will overtake you for your broken word. Behold, time\nis given you; but if now you fulfil not your vow, both your children\nwill die.'\n\nIn the morning the wife told the dream to the husband, and the\nhusband told the dream to the wife, and they said to each other,\n'This is no common dream; we must look to it.' So they bought pilgrims'\ndresses, and went to 'Galizia,' the husband, and wife, and the son;\nbut concerning the daughter they said, 'The maiden is of too tender\nyears for this journey, let her stay with her nurse;' and they left her\nin the charge of the nurse and the parish priest. But that priest was\na bad man--for it will happen that a priest may be bad sometimes; and,\ninstead of leading her right, he wanted her to do many bad things, and\nwhen she would not listen to him, he wrote false letters to her parents\nabout her, and gave a report of her conduct to shock her parents. When\nthe brother saw these letters of the priest concerning his sister,\nhe was indignant with her, and, without waiting for his parents'\nadvice, went back home quickly, and killed her with his dagger,\nand threw her body into a ditch. But he went back to the shrine of\nSt. James to live in penance.\n\nNot long had her body lain in the ditch when a king's son came by\nhunting, and the dogs scented the blood of a Christian lying in the\nditch, and bayed over it till the huntsmen came and took out the body;\nwhen they saw it was the body of a fair maiden, yet warm, they showed\nit to the prince, and the prince when he saw the maiden, loved her, and\ntook her to a convent to be healed of her wound, and afterwards married\nher; and when his father died, he was king and she became a queen.\n\nBut her father and mother, hearing only that her brother had killed\nher and thrown her body in the ditch, and supposing she was dead,\nsaid one to the other, 'Why should we go back home, seeing that our\ndaughter is dead? What have we to go home for? There is nothing but\nsorrow for us there.' So they remained at the shrine of St. James,\nand built a hospice for poor pilgrims, and tended them.\n\nMeantime the daughter, who had become a queen, she also had two\nchildren, a boy and a girl, and her husband rejoiced in them and\nin her. But troubled times came, and her husband had to go forth to\nbattle, and while she was left without him in the palace, the viceroy\ncame to her and wanted her to do wrong, and when she would not listen\nto him, he took her two children and killed them before her eyes. 'What\ndo I here,' said she, 'seeing my two children are dead?' And she took\nthe bodies of her children and went forth. When she had wandered long\nby solitary places, she came one day to a mountain, and at the foot\nof the mountain sat a dwarf, [177] and the dwarf had compassion when\nhe saw how she was worn with crying, and he said to her, 'Go up the\nmountain and be consoled.' Thus she went up the mountain till she\nsaw a majestic woman, with an infant in her arms; and this was the\nMadonna, you must know. [178]\n\nWhen she saw a woman like herself, with a child too, for all that she\nlooked so bright and majestic, she was consoled; and she poured all her\nstory into her ear. 'And I would go to S. Giacomo di Galizia to ask\nthat my husband's love may be restored to me, for I know the viceroy\nwill calumniate me to him; but how can I leave these children?' Then\nthe lady said, 'Leave your children with me, and they shall be with\nmy child, and go you to Galizia as you have said, and be consoled.' So\nshe put on pilgrim's weeds, and went to Galizia.\n\nMeantime the king came back from battle, and the viceroy told\nhim evil about the queen; and his mother, who also believed the\nviceroy, said, 'Did I not tell you a woman picked up is never good\nfor anything?' [179] But the king was grieved, for he had loved the\nqueen dearly, and he took a pilgrim's dress and went to Galizia, to\nthe shrine of S. Giacomo, to pray that she might be forgiven. Then the\nviceroy, he too was seized with compunction, and, unknown to the king,\nhe too became a pilgrim, and went to do penance at the same shrine.\n\nThus it happened that they all met together, without knowing each\nother, in the hospice that that husband and wife had built at\nGalizia; and when they had paid their devotions at the shrine, and\nall sat together in the hospice in the evening, all told some tale\nof what he had seen and what he had heard. But there sat one who\ntold nothing. Then said the king to this one, 'And you, good man,\nwhy do you tell no story?' for he knew not that it was the queen,\nnor that it was even a woman.\n\nThus appealed to, however, she rose and told a tale of how there had\nbeen a husband and wife who had made a vow that if they had children,\nthey would go a pilgrimage to S. Giacomo di Galizia; 'and,' said she,\n'they were just two people such as you might be,' and she pointed\nto the two who were founders of the hospice. And that when they were\nabsent, and left their daughter behind, the parish priest calumniated\nher, so that her brother came back and stabbed her, and threw her body\nin a ditch. 'And he was just such a young man, strong and ardent, as\nyou may have been,' and she pointed to the son of the founders. 'But\nthat maiden was not dead,' she went on, 'and a king found her, and\nmarried her, and she had two children, and lived happily with him\ntill he went to the wars, then the viceroy calumniated her till she\nran away out of the palace; and the viceroy was just such a one,\nstrong and dark, as you may be,' and she pointed to the viceroy,\nwho sat trembling in a corner; 'and when the king came back, he told\nhim evil of her; but that king was noble and pious as you may be,'\nand she pointed to the king, 'and in his heart he believed no evil\nof his wife, but went to S. Giacomo di Galizia to pray that the truth\nmight be made plain.'\n\nAs she spoke, one after another they all arose, and said, 'How comes\nthis peasant to know all the story of my life; and who has sent him\nto declare it here!' and they were all strangely moved, and called\nupon the peasant to tell them who had shown him these things. But the\nsupposed peasant answered, 'My old grandfather, as we sat on the hearth\ntogether.' [180] 'That cannot be,' said they, 'for to every one of\nus you have told his own life; and now you must tell us more, for we\nwill not rest till we have righted her who has thus suffered.' When\nshe found them so earnest and so determined to do right, she said\nfurther, 'That queen am I!' and she took off her hood, and they\nknew her, and all fell round and embraced her. Then said the king,\n'And on this viceroy, on whose account you have suffered so sadly,\nwhat vengeance will you have on him?' But she said, 'I will have\nno vengeance; but now that he has come to the shrine of Galizia,\nGod will forgive him; and may he find peace!'\n\nThus all were restored and united; and when she had embraced her\nparents and her brother, and spent some days with them, she went home\nwith her husband and reigned in his kingdom.\n\n\n[The story seemed to be ended, and I hoped it was, for the way in\nwhich the children were left seemed a poetic way of describing their\ndeath; but to make sure, I said, 'And the children, they remained\nwith the Madonna?'\n\n'No, no! I forgot. It's well you reminded me. No; by their way home\nthey went back to the mountain, and they found their children well\ncared for by that \"Majestic Lady,\" and playing with her Bambino; she\ngave the children back, and blessed them, and then went up to heaven;\nand they built a chapel in the place where she had been.']\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSANTA VERDANA.\n\n\nThere was a man with a general shop who had an excellent girl for\na servant, and she was so honest as well as diligent that he left\nher to attend to the shop besides doing the work. All he gave her to\ndo she did well, and his business flourished without his having any\ntrouble about it.\n\nBut some envious people came to him and said that the girl had given\naway all his substance, and there was nothing left; so he watched,\nand he saw it was indeed so. To every poor person who came she\ngave whatever they asked for the love of God, and all the stores\nand presses were empty. Yet, as there seemed no lack of anything\neither, and when customers came she always continued to supply them,\nhe hesitated to interfere.\n\nSo it might have gone on, only people went on whispering doubts. And\none said one day, 'Suppose she should die, where would you be\nthen?' That is true, he thought to himself, and upon that he went and\nasked her where all the things were gone. She never made any reply,\nbut knelt down and prayed, and as she prayed all the presses and stores\nbecame full again with all kinds of merchandise as at the first. But\nshe went away from him after that, and built herself a cell, walled\nup all round, next to the church of St. Anthony, where she lived\nin continual prayer, and she took a brick out of the wall to make a\nhole through which she heard mass. At last one day came when they saw\nher no more at the hole hearing mass, and they opened her cell and\nfound her lying on the floor with her hands crossed on her breast,\nand the cell was filled with a beautiful perfume, for she had been\nsanctified there, and her soul had gone thence to God.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSAN SIDORO.\n\n\n[This seems very like another version of the foregoing.]\n\nSt. Isidor was the steward of a rich man, and as he was filled with\nholy piety and compassion, he could never turn away from any that\nbegged of him, but gave to all liberally; to one Indian corn meal,\nto another beans, to another lentils.\n\nAt last men with envious tongues came to his master and said:\n'This steward of yours of whom you think so much is wasting all your\nsubstance, and he has given away so much to the poor that there can\nbe nothing left in any of your barns and storehouses; you had better\nlook to it.' The master, after hearing this, came down to St. Isidor\nvery angry, and bade him bring the keys and open all the barns and\nstorehouses. St. Isidor did as he was bid without an angry word, and\nbehold they were all so full of grain and beans, and every species\nof good gift of God, that you could not go into them, they were full\nto the very doors. After that the master let him give away as much\nas he would.\n\n\n\n[I have heard the same at Siena told of San Gherardo, or Gheraldo as\nthe people call him, under the character of a Franciscan laybrother. He\nseemed to give away all the provisions people gave him in alms for the\nconvent, but when the Superior, warned by envious tongues, chid him,\nhe showed that there remained over more than sufficient for the needs\nof the community.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE FISHPOND OF ST. FRANCIS. [181]\n\n\nSt. Francis had a little fishpond, where he kept some gold and silver\nfish as a pastime.\n\nSome bad people wanted to vex him, and they went and caught these\npoor little fish and fried them, and sent them up to him for dinner.\n\nBut St. Francis when he saw them knew that they were his gold fish,\nand made the sign of the cross over them, and blessed them, and soon\nthey became alive again, and he took them and put them back into the\nfishpond, and no one durst touch them again after that.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nST. ANTHONY.\n\n\nSt. Anthony's father was accused of murder, and as facts seemed\nagainst him, he was condemned to be executed.\n\nSt. Anthony was preaching in the pulpit as his father was taken\nto the scaffold. 'Allow me to stop for a minute to take breath,'\nhe said, and he made a minute's pause in the midst of his discourse,\nand then went on again.\n\nBut in that minute's pause, though no one in church had lost sight\nof him, he had gone on to the scaffold.\n\n'What are you doing to that man?' he asked.\n\n'He has committed a murder, and is going to be executed.'\n\n'He has murdered no one. Bring hither the dead man.'\n\nNo one knew who it was that spoke, but they felt impelled to obey\nhim nevertheless.\n\nWhen the dead man's body was brought, St. Anthony said to him:--\n\n'Is this the man who killed you? say!'\n\nThe dead man opened his eyes and looked at the accused.\n\n'Oh, no; that's not the man at all!' he said.\n\n'And you, where are you?' continued St. Anthony.\n\n'I should be in Paradise, but that there is a ground of excommunication\non me, therefore am I in Purgatory,' answered the dead man. Then\nSt. Anthony put his ear down, and bid him tell him the matter of the\nexcommunication; and, when he had confessed it, he released him from\nthe bond, and he went straight to Paradise. The father of St. Anthony,\ntoo, was pronounced innocent, and set free.\n\nAnd all the while no one had missed St. Anthony from the pulpit!\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nSANT' ANTONIO E SORA [182] CASTITRE.\n\nI too know a story about St. Anthony.\n\nSt. Anthony was a fair youth, as you will always see in his\nportraits. As he went about preaching there was a young woman who began\nto admire him very much, and her name was Sora Castitre. Whenever she\ncould find out in which direction he was going she would put herself\nin his way and try to speak to him. St. Anthony at first kept his\neyes fixed on the ground, and took no notice of her; then he tried\nto make her desist by rebuking her, but she ceased not to follow him.\n\nThen he thought to himself, with all a saint's compunction, 'It is\nnot she who is to blame, and who is worthy of rebuke, but I, who have\nbeen the occasion of sin to her. God grant that sin be not imputed\nto her through loving me.'\n\nThe next time she met him, it was in a deserted part of the Campagna.\n\n'Brother Antonio, come along with me down this path. No one will see\nus there,' said Sora Castitre.\n\nMuch to her surprise, instead of pursuing the severe tone he had\nalways adopted towards her, St. Anthony greeted her and smiled with\na smile which filled her with a joy different from anything she had\nknown before. What was more, he seemed to follow her, and she led on.\n\nBut as she went the way seemed quite changed. She knew well the retired\npath by which she had meant to lead him, but now everything around\nlooked different; not one landmark was the same. Yet 'how could it\nbe different?' she said within herself; and she led on.\n\nWhat was her astonishment, when, instead of finding it terminate in a\nrocky gorge as she had found before, there rose before her presently\nan austere building surrounded with walls and gates!\n\nSt. Anthony stepped forward as they reached the gate. A nun opened to\nthem, and St. Anthony asked for the mother abbess. 'I have brought you\na maiden,' he said, 'whom I recommend to your affectionate and tender\ncare.' The mother abbess promised to make her her special charge,\nand St. Anthony went his way, first calling the maiden aside and\ncharging her with this one petition he would have her make:\n\n'I have sinned; have mercy on me.'\n\nThen St. Anthony went back to his convent and called all the brethren\ntogether, and asked them all to pray very earnestly all through the\nnight, and in the morning tell him what manifestation they had had.\n\nThe brethren promised to comply; and in the morning they all told\nhim they had seen a little spark of light shining in the darkness.\n\n'It suffices not, my brethren!' said St. Anthony; 'continue your\ncharity and pray on instantly this night also.'\n\nThe brethren promised compliance; and in the morning they all told\nhim they had seen a pale streak of light stealing away towards heaven.\n\n'It suffices not, my brethren!' said St. Anthony; 'of your charity\npray on yet again this night also.'\n\nThe brethren promised compliance; and in the morning they told him\nthey had all seen a blaze of light, and in the midst of it a bed on\nwhich lay a most beautiful maiden, white [183] as a lily, carried up\nto heaven, borne by four shining angels.\n\n'It is well, my brethren!' replied St. Anthony; 'your prayers have\nrendered a soul to the celestial quires.'\n\nAfterwards he went to the convent where he had left Sora Castitre,\nand learnt from the mother abbess that, spending three penitential\ndays saying only, 'I have sinned; have mercy on me,' she had rendered\nup her soul to God in simplicity and fervour.\n\n\n\n\n3\n\nThe legend of St. Anthony preaching to the fishes is well known\nfrom paintings, and I do not reproduce it because it was told me\nwith no variation from the usual form. But another legend, which\nearly pictures have rendered equally familiar, I received with an\nanachronistic addition which is worth putting down.\n\n\n\n\n4\n\nST. ANTHONY AND THE HOLY CHILD. [184]\n\nSt. Anthony had been sent a long way off to preach; [185] by the way\nfatigue overtook him, and he found hospitality for a few days in a\nmonastery by the way. Later in the evening came a Protestant [186] and\nasked hospitality, and he also was received, because you know there\nare many Protestants who are very good; and, besides that, if the\nman needed hospitality the monks would give it, whoever he might be.\n\nThe monks were all in their cells by an early hour in the evening,\nbut the Protestant walked up and down the corridors smoking.\n\nSuddenly through the cracks and the keyhole and all round the lintel\nof the door he saw a bright light issue where anon all was dark;\nit seemed as if the cell was on fire. 'One of the good monks has set\nfire to his bedclothes!' he said, and looked through the keyhole. What\ndid he see? on the open book from which a father who was kneeling\nbefore it had been taking his meditations stood a beautiful Child\nwhom it filled you with love to look at, and from Whom shone a light\ntoo bright to bear.\n\nAnxious to obtain a better view of the glorious sight the Protestant\nknocked at the door; St. Anthony, for it was he, called to him to\ncome in; but instantly the vision vanished.\n\n'Who was that Child who was talking to you?' asked the Protestant.\n\n'The Divine Infant!' answered St. Anthony with the greatest simplicity.\n\nThe next night the Protestant, curious to know if the Child would\nappear again, again walked up and down the corridor smoking, keeping\nhis eye on the door of St. Anthony's cell; nor was it long before\nthe same sight met his eye, but this time he was led to prolong his\nconverse with the saint. The next night there was the same prodigy,\nand that night they sat up all night talking.\n\nWhen morning came he told the father abbot he wished to make his\nadjuration and join the order, and he finally took the habit in\nthat monastery.\n\n\n\n\n5\n\nThey say there was once a poor man who had paid what he owed for\nhis ground. You know the way is, that when a man has gathered in his\nharvest and turned a little money then he pays off what he owes. This\nman paid for his ground as soon as he had made something by his\nharvest, but the seller did not give him any receipt. Soon after the\nowner died, and his son came to ask for the money over again. 'But I\npaid your father,' said the poor man. 'Then show your receipt,' said\nthe son. 'But he didn't give me one,' answered the poor man. 'Then\nyou must pay me,' insisted the new proprietor.\n\n'What shall I do! what shall I do!' exclaimed the poor man in\ndespair. 'St. Anthony, help me!' He had hardly said the words when\nhe saw a friar [187] coming towards him.\n\n'What's the matter, good man?' said the friar, 'that you are so\ndistressed: tell me.' And the poor man told him all the story of\nhis distress.\n\n'Shall I tell you how to get the receipt?' asked the friar.\n\n'Indeed, indeed!' [188] exclaimed the poor man, 'that would be the\nmaking of me; but it's more than you can do--the man is dead!'\n\n'Never mind that. You do what I tell you,' said the monk. 'Go straight\nalong that path;' and the man saw that where he pointed was a path\nthat had never been there before. 'Follow that path,' said the monk,\n'and you will come to a casino with great iron gates which shut and\nopen of themselves continually. You must watch the moment when they\nare open and go boldly in. Inside you will see a big room and a man\nsitting at a table writing ceaselessly and casting accounts. That is\nyour landlord; ask him for the receipt and he won't dare withhold it\nnow. But mind one thing. Don't touch a single article in the room,\nwhatever you do.'\n\nThe poor man went along the path, and found all as the monk had\ntold him.\n\n'How did you get here?' exclaimed the landlord, as soon as he\nrecognised him; and the poor man told him how he had been sent and why\nhe was come. The landlord sat at his desk writing with the greatest\nexpedition, as if some one was whipping him on, and knitting his brows\nover his sums as if they were more than his brain could calculate;\nnevertheless, he took a piece of paper and wrote the receipt, and\nmoreover he wrote two or three lines more on another piece of paper,\nwhich he bade him give to his son.\n\nThe poor man promised to deliver it, and turned to go; but as he went\ncould not forbear putting his hand over the polished surface of a table\nhe had to pass, unmindful of the charge the monk had given him not\nto touch anything. His hand was no sooner in contact with the table\nthan the whole skin was burnt off, and he understood that he was in\nHell. With all expedition he watched the turn of the door opening,\nand hastened out.\n\n'What have you got about your hand?' asked St. Anthony when the man\ncame back, for the friar was none other than St. Anthony.\n\n'I touched one of the tables in that house,' he answered, 'forgetting\nwhat you told me, and burnt my hand so badly I had to dip this cloth\nin a river as I came by and tie it up. But I have the receipt, thanks\nto you.' So St. Anthony touched his hand and healed it, and he saw\nhim no more.\n\nThen the man took the letter to the old lord's son. 'Why, this is my\nfather's writing!' he exclaimed; 'and my father is dead. How did you\ncome by it?' And he told him. And the letter said: 'Behold, I am in\nHell! But you, mend your ways; give money to the poor; compensate\nthis man for the trouble he has had; and be just to all, lest you\nalso come hither.'\n\nThen the old landlord's son gave the man a large sum of money to\ncompensate him for his anxieties, and sent him away consoled.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nST. MARGARET OF CORTONA.\n\n\nSt. Margaret wasn't always a saint, you must know: in her youth\nshe was very much the reverse. She had a very cruel stepmother, who\nworried her to death, [189] and gave her work she was unequal to do.\n\nOne day her stepmother had sent her out to tie up bundles of hay. As\nshe was so engaged a Count came by, and he stopped to look at her,\nfor she was rarely beautiful. [190]\n\n'What hard work for such pretty little hands,' he began by saying;\nand after many tender words had been exchanged he proposed that she\nshould go home with him, where her life would be the reverse of the\nsuffering existence she had now to endure.\n\nMargaret consented at once, for her stepmother, besides working her\nhard, had neglected to form her to proper sentiments of virtue.\n\nThe count took her to his villa at a place called Monte Porciana,\na good way from Cortona. Here her life was indeed a contrast to what\nit had been at home at Cortona. Instead of having to work, she had\nplenty of servants to wait upon her; her dress and her food were\nall in the greatest luxury, and she was supplied with everything\nshe wished for. Sometimes as she went to the theatre, decked out\nin her gay attire, and knowing that she was a scandal to all, she\nwould say in mirth and wantonness, 'Who knows whether one day I may\nnot be stuck up there on high in the churches, like some of those\nsaints? As strange things have happened ere now!' But she only said\nit in wantonness. So she went on enjoying life, and when their son\nwas born there was nothing more she desired.\n\nIn the midst of this gay existence, word was brought her one evening\nthat the Count, who had gone out that morning full of health and\nspirits to the hunt, had been overtaken and assassinated, and as\nall had been afraid to pursue the murderers, they knew not where his\nbody was.\n\nMargaret was thrown into a frenzy [191] at the news; her fine clothing\nand her rich fare gave her little pleasure now. All amusement and\nfrivolity were put out of sight; and she sat on her sofa and stared\nbefore her, for she had no heart to turn to anything that could\ndistract her thoughts from her great loss. Then one day--it might have\nbeen three days after--a favourite dog belonging to the count came\nlimping and whining up to her. Margaret rose immediately; she knew\nthat the dog would take her to the count's body, and she rose up and\nmotioned to him to go: and the dog, all glad to return to his master,\nran on before. All the household were too much afraid of the assassins\nto venture in their way, so Margaret went forth alone. It was a long\nrough way; but the dog ran on, and Margaret kept on as well as her\nbroken strength would admit. At last they came to a brake where the\ndog stopped, and now whined no longer but howled piteously.\n\nMargaret knew that they had reached the object of their search, and it\nwas indeed here the assassins had hidden the body. Moving away with\nher own hands the leaves and branches with which they had covered\nit over, the fearful sight of her lover's mangled body lay before\nher. The condition into which the wounds and the lapse of time had\nbrought it was more than she could bear to look at, and she swooned\naway on the spot.\n\nWhen she came to herself all the course of her thoughts was\nchanged. She saw what her life had been; the sense of the scandal she\nhad given was more to her even than her own distracting grief. As\nthe most terrible penance she could think of, she resolved to go\nback to her stepmother and endure her hard treatment, sharpened by\nthe invectives with which she knew it would now be seasoned.\n\nTaking with her her son, she went to her, therefore, and with the\ngreatest submission of manner entreated to be readmitted. But not\neven this would the stepmother grant her, but drove her away from\nthe door. She then turned to her father, but he was bound to say the\nsame as his wife. She now saw there was one misery worse than harsh\ntreatment, and that was penury--starvation, not only for herself,\nbut her child.\n\nLittle she cared what became of her, but for the child something must\nbe done. What did she do? She went and put on a sackcloth dress, [192]\ntied about the waist with a rope, and she went to the church at the\nhigh mass time; and when mass was over she stood on the altar step,\nand told all the people she was Margaret of Cortona, who had given\nso much scandal, and now was come to show her contrition for it.\n\nHer sufferings had gone up before God. As she spoke her confession\nso humbly before all the people, the count's mother rose from her\nseat, and, coming up to her, threw her handkerchief over her head\n[193]--for she was bareheaded--and led her away to her home.\n\nShe would only accept her hospitality on condition of being allowed\nto live in a little room apart, with no more furniture than a nun's\ncell. Here she lived twelve years of penance, till her boy was old\nenough to choose his state in life. He elected to be a Dominican,\nand afterwards became a Preacher of the Apostolic Palace; and she\nentered a Franciscan convent, where she spent ten more years of\npenance, till God took her to Himself.\n\nShe cut off all her long hair when she went to live in her cell\nat the house of the count's mother, that she might not again be an\noccasion of sin to anyone. And after that, when she found she was\nstill a subject of human admiration, she cut off her lips, that no\none might admire her again. [194]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nST. THEODORA.\n\n\nWhen Santa Teodora was young she was married, and lived very happily\nwith her husband, for they were both very fond of each other.\n\nBut there was a count who saw her and fell in love with her, and\ntried his utmost to get an opportunity of telling her his affection,\nbut she was so prudent that he could not approach her. So what did\nhe do? he went to a bad old woman [195] and told her that he would\ngive her ever so much money if she would get him the opportunity\nof meeting her. The old wretch accepted the commission willingly,\nand put all her bad arts in requisition to make Theodora forget\nher duty. For a long time Theodora refused to listen to her and\nsent her away, but she went on finding excuses to come to her,\nand again and again urged her persuasions and excited her curiosity\nso that finally she consented that he might just come and see her,\nand the witch woman assured her that was all he asked. But what he\nwanted was the opportunity of speaking his own story into her ear,\nand when that was given him he pushed his suit so successfully that\nit wasn't only once he came, but many times.\n\nYet it was not a very long time before a day came when Theodora\nsaw how wrong she had been, and then, seized with compunction,\nshe determined to go away and hide herself where she would never be\nheard of more. Before her husband came home she cut off all her hair,\nand putting on a coarse dress she went to a Capuchin monastery and\nasked admission.\n\n'What is your name?' asked the Superior.\n\n'Theodore,' she replied.\n\n'You seem too young for our severe rule,' he continued; 'you seem a\nmere boy;' but she expressed such sincere sentiments of contrition\nas showed him she was worthy to embrace their life of penance.\n\nThe Devil was very much vexed to see what a perfect penitent she made,\nand he stirred up the other monks to suspect her of all manner of\nthings; but they could find no fault against her, nor did they ever\nsuspect that she was a woman.\n\nOne day when she was sent with another brother to beg for the convent\na storm overtook them in a wood, and they were obliged to seek the\nshelter of a cottage there was on the borders of the wood where\nthey were belated. 'There is room in the stable for one of you,'\nsaid the peasant who lived there; 'but that other one who looks so\nyoung and so delicate' (he meant Theodora) 'must sleep indoors, and\nthe only place is the loft where my daughter sleeps; but it can't be\nhelped.' Theodora, therefore, slept in the loft and the monk in the\nstable, and in the morning when the weather was fair they went back\nto their convent. Months passed away, and the incident was almost\nforgotten, when one day the peasant came to the monastery and rang\nthe bell in a great fury, and he laid down at the entrance a bundle\nin which was a baby. 'That young monk of yours is the father of this\nchild,' he said, 'and you ought to turn him out of the convent.' Then\nthe Superior sent for 'Theodore,' and repeated what the peasant\nhad said.\n\n'Surely God has sent me this new penance because the life I lead\nhere is not severe enough,' she said. 'He has sent me this further\npunishment that all the community should think me guilty.' Therefore\nshe would not justify herself, but accepted the accusation and took\nthe baby and went away. Her only way of living now was to get a night's\nlodging how she could, and come every day to the convent gate with the\nchild and live on the dole that was distributed there to the poor. What\na life for her who had been brought up delicately in her own palace!\n\nShe was not allowed to rest, however, even so, for people took offence\nbecause she was permitted to remain so near the monastery, and the\nmonks had to send her away. So she went to seek the shelter of a wood,\nand to labour to find the means of living for herself and the child in\nthe roots and herbs she could pick up. But one of the monks one day\nfound her there, and saw her so emaciated that he told the Superior,\nand he let her come back to receive the dole.\n\nAt last she died, and when they came to bury her they found she had\nin one hand a written paper so tightly clasped that no one had the\nstrength to unclose it; and there she lay on her bier in the church\nlooking so sad and worn, yet as sweetly fair as she had looked in life,\nand with the written paper tightly grasped in her closed hand.\n\nNow when her husband found that she had left his palace the night\nshe went away he left no means untried to discover where she was;\nand when he had made inquiries and sent everywhere, and could learn\nno tidings whatever, he put on pilgrim's weeds and went out to seek\nfor her everywhere himself.\n\nIt so happened that he came into the city where she died just as she\nwas thus laid on her bier in the church. In spite of her male attire\nhe knew her; in the midst of his grief he noticed the written paper\nshe held. To his touch her hand opened instantly, and in the scroll\nwas found recorded all she had done and all she had suffered.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNUN BEATRICE. [196]\n\n\nNun Beatrice had not altogether the true spirit of a religious: she\nwas somewhat given to vanity; [197] though but for this she was a\ngood nun, and full of excellent dispositions. She held the office of\nportress; [198] and, as she determined to go away out of her convent\nand return into the world, this seemed to afford her a favourable\nopportunity for carrying out her design. Accordingly, one day when the\nhouse was very quiet, and there seemed no danger of being observed,\nhaving previously contrived to secrete some secular clothes such as\npassed through her hands to keep in store for giving to the poor,\nshe let herself out and went away.\n\nIn the parlour was a kneeling-desk with a picture of Our Lady hanging\nover it, where she had been wont to kneel and hold converse with Our\nLady in prayer whenever she had a moment to spare. On this desk she\nlaid the keys before she went, thinking it was a safe place for the\nSuperior to find them; and she commended them to the care of Our Lady,\nwhose picture hung above, and said, 'Keep thou the keys, and let no\nharm come to this good house and my dear sisters.'\n\nAs she said the words Our Lady looked at her with a glance of reproach,\nenough to have melted her heart and made her return to a better mood\nhad she seen it; but she was too full of her own thoughts and the\nexcitement of her undertaking to notice anything. No sooner was she\ngone out, however, than Our Lady, walking out of the canvas, assumed\nthe dress that she had laid aside, and, tying the keys to her girdle,\nassumed the office of portress.\n\nWith the habit of the portress Our Lady also assumed her semblance;\nso that no one noticed the exchange, except that all remarked how\nhumble, how modest, how edifying Beatrice had become.\n\nAfter a time the nuns began to say it was a pity so perfect a\nnun should be left in so subordinate a position, and they made her\ntherefore Mistress of the Novices. This office she exercised with as\ngreat perfection, according to its requirements, as she had the other;\nand so sweetly did she train the young nuns entrusted to her direction\nthat all the novices became saints.\n\nBeatrice meantime had gone to live in the world as a secular; and\nthough she often repented of what she had done, she had not the\ncourage to go back and tell all. She prayed for courage, but she\nwent on delaying. While she was in this mind it so happened one day\nthat the factor [199] of the convent came to the house where she was\nliving. What strange and moving memories of her peaceful home filled\nher mind as she saw his well-known form, though he did not recognise\nher in her secular dress! What an opportunity too, she thought, to\nlearn what was the feeling of the community towards her, and what\nhad been said of her escape!\n\n'I hope all your nuns are well,' she said. 'I used to live in their\nneighbourhood once, and there was one of them I used to know, Suora\n[200] Beatrice. How is she now?'\n\n'Sister Beatrice!' said the factor. 'She is the model of perfection,\nthe example of the whole house. Everybody is ready to worship her. With\nall respect to the Church, which never canonizes the living, no one\ndoubts she is a saint indeed.'\n\n'It cannot be the same,' answered Beatrice. 'The one I knew was\nanything but a saint, though I loved her well, and should like to\nhave news of her.' And she hardly knew how to conceal the astonishment\nwith which she was seized at hearing him speak thus; for the event on\nwhich she expected him to enlarge at once was the extraordinary fact\nof her escape. But he pursued in the same quiet way as before. 'Oh\nyes, it must be the same. There has never been but one of the name\nsince I have known the convent. She was portress some time ago;\nbut latterly she has been made Mistress of the Novices.'\n\nThere was nothing more to be learnt from him; so she pursued her\ninquiries no further. But he had no sooner had start enough to put\nhim at a safe distance, than she set out to go to the convent and\nsee this Sister Beatrice who so strangely represented her.\n\nArrived at the convent door, she asked to see Sister Beatrice, and\nin a very few minutes the Mistress of the Novices entered the parlour.\n\nThe presence of the new Mistress of the Novices filled Beatrice with\nan awe she could not account for; and, without waiting to ask herself\nwhy, she fell on her knees before her.\n\n'It is well you have come back, my child,' said Our Lady; 'resume\nyour dress, which I have worn for you; go in to the convent again,\nand do penance, and keep up the good name I have earned for you.'\n\nWith that Our Lady returned to the canvas; Beatrice resumed her habit,\nand strove so earnestly to form herself by the model of perfection Our\nLady had set while wearing it, that in a few months she became a saint.\n\n\n[Mr. Ralston gives a Russian story (pp. 249-50), in which St. Nicholas\ncomes in person and serves a man who has been devout to his picture.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPADRE FILIPPO.\n\n\n[St. Philip Neri is a giant indeed in the household memories of the\nRoman poor. His acts have become travestied and magnified among them\nin the most portentous way, and they always talk of him with the most\npatriotic enthusiasm. 'He was a Roman!--a Roman indeed!' they will\nsay. And yet he was not a born Roman, but was made 'Protector of Rome'\nby the Church.\n\n'Padre Filippo' is their favourite way of naming him, and sometimes\n'il buon Filippo' and 'Pippo buono.']\n\n\n\n\n1\n\nThere was in Padre Filippo's time a cardinal who was Prefect of the\nprovisions, [201] who let everything go wrong and attended to nothing,\nand the poor were all suffering because provisions got so dear.\n\nPadre Filippo went to the Pope--Papa Medici [202] it was--and told\nhim how badly off the poor were; so the Pope called the Cardinal to\naccount, and went on making him attend to it till Padre Filippo told\nhim that things were on a better footing.\n\nBut the Cardinal came to Padre Filippo and said:\n\n'Why do you vex me by going and making mischief to the Pope?'\n\nBut Padre Filippo, instead of being frightened at his anger, rose up\nand said:\n\n'Come here and I will show you what is the fate of those who oppress\nand neglect the poor. Come here Eminentissimo, and look,' and he took\nhim to the window and asked him what he saw.\n\nThe Cardinal looked, and he saw a great fire of Hell, and the souls\nwrithing in it. The Cardinal said no more and went away, but not long\nafter he gave up being a cardinal and became a simple brother under\nPadre Filippo.\n\n\n\n[Who this cardinal may have been I do not know, but the story was\ntold me another time in this form:--]\n\n\n\n\n1A\n\nThere was a cardinal--Gastaldi was his name--who went a good deal\ninto society to the neglect of more important duties. One evening,\nwhen he was at a conversazione, Padre Filippo came to the house where\nhe was and had him called out to him in an empty room.\n\n'Your Eminence! come to this window, I have something to show you.'\n\nThe Cardinal came to the window and looked out, and instead of the\nhouses he saw Hell opened and all the souls [203] in the flames;\na great serpent was wriggling in and out among them and biting them,\nand in the midst was a gilt cardinalitial chair.\n\n'Who is that seat for?' inquired the Cardinal.\n\n'It is placed there for your Eminence,' replied St. Philip.\n\n'What must I do to escape it?' exclaimed the Cardinal, horrified\nand self-convicted.\n\nPadre Filippo read him a lecture on penitence and amendment of life,\nand for the practical part of his advice warned him to devote to\ngood works moneys he had been too fond of heaping up. The Cardinal\nafter this became very devout, and the poor were great gainers by\nSt. Philip's instructions to him, and the two churches you see at the\nend of the Corso and Babbuino in Piazza del Popolo were also built\nby him with the money Padre Filippo had warned him to spend aright,\nand you may see his arms up there any day for yourself. [204]\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nSome of their stories of him are jocose. There was a young married\nlady who was a friend of the Order, and had done it much good. She was\nvery much afraid of the idea of her confinement as the time approached\nand said she could never endure it. Padre Filippo knew how good she\nwas and felt great compassion for her.\n\n'Never mind, my child,' said the 'good Philip'; 'I will take all your\npain on myself.'\n\nTime passed away, and one night the community was very much surprised\nto hear 'good Philip' raving and shouting with pain; he who voluntarily\nsubmitted to every penance without a word, and whom they had often\nseen so patient in illness. That same night the lady's child was born\nand she felt no pain at all.\n\nEarly next morning she sent to tell him that her child was born,\nand to ask how he was.\n\n'Tell her I am getting a little better now,' said 'good Philip,'\n'but I never suffered anything like it before. Next time, mind, she\nmust manage her affairs for herself. For never will I interfere [205]\nwith anything of that sort again.'\n\n\n\n\n3\n\nAnother who had no child was very anxious to have one, and came to\nPadre Filippo to ask him to pray for her that she might have one. Padre\nFilippo promised to pray for her; but instead of a child there was only\na shapeless thing. She sent for Padre Filippo once more, therefore,\nand said:\n\n'There! that's all your prayers have brought!'\n\n'Oh never mind!' said Padre Filippo; and he took it and shaped it\n(the narrator twisted up a large towel and showed how he formed first\none leg then the other, then the arms, then the head, as if she had\nseen him do it). Then he knelt down by the side and prayed while he\ntold them to keep silence, and it opened its eyes and cried, and the\nmother was content.\n\n[His winning and practical ways of dealing with his penitents afford\nan endless theme of anecdote, but some have grown to most extravagant\nproportions. The following shows how, as in all legends, mysteries\nare made to wear a material form. The fact that on some occasions he\nsatisfied some, whom no one else could satisfy, of the boundless mercy\nof God, is brought to proof in such a tangible way as to provoke the\ndenial it was invented to silence.]\n\n\n\n\n4\n\nThere was a man who was dying, and would not have a priest near him. He\nsaid he had so many sins on him it was impossible God could forgive\nhim, so it was no use bothering himself about confessing. His wife and\nhis children begged and entreated him to let them send for a priest,\nbut he would not listen to them.\n\nSo they sent for Padre Filippo, and as he was a friend he said:\n\n'If he comes as a visitor he may come in, but not as a priest.'\n\nGood Philip sat down by his side and said:\n\n'A visitor may ask a question. Why won't you let me come as a priest?'\n\nThe sick man gave the same answer as before.\n\n'Now you're quite mistaken,' said St. Philip, 'and I'll show you\nsomething.'\n\nThen he called for paper and pen and wrote a note.\n\n'Padre Eterne!' he wrote. 'Can a man's sins be forgiven?' and he\nfolded it, and away it went of itself right up to heaven.\n\nAn hour later, as they were all sitting there, another note came back\nall by itself, written in shining letters of gold, and it said:--\n\n'Padre Eterne forgives and receives everyone who is penitent.'\n\nThe sick man resisted no longer after that; he made his confession\nand received the sacrament, and died consoled in 'good Philip's' arms.\n\n\n\n\n5\n\nPadre Filippo was walking one day through the streets of Rome when\nhe saw a great crowd very much excited. 'What's the matter?' asked\n'good Philip.'\n\n'There's a man in that house up there beating his wife fit to kill her,\nand for nothing at all, for she's an angel of goodness. Nothing at all,\nbut because she's so ugly.'\n\nPadre Filippo waited till the husband was tired of beating her and\nhad gone out, and all the crowd had dispersed. Then he went up to\nthe room where the poor woman lived, and knocked at the door. 'Who's\nthere?' said the woman.\n\n'Padre Filippo!' answered 'good Philip,' and the woman opened quickly\nenough when she heard it was Padre Filippo who knocked.\n\nBut good Philip himself started back with horror when he saw her,\nshe was so ugly. However, he said nothing, but made the sign of the\ncross over her, and prayed, and immediately she became as beautiful\nas she had been ugly; but she knew nothing, of course, of the change.\n\n'Your husband won't beat you any more,' said good Philip, as he turned\nto go; 'only if he asks you who has been here send him to me.'\n\nWhen the husband came home and found his wife had become so beautiful,\nhe kissed her, and was beside himself for joy; and she could not\nimagine what had made him so different towards her. 'Who has been\nhere?' he asked.\n\n'Only Padre Filippo,' answered the wife; 'and he said that if you\nasked I was to tell you to go to him;' the husband ran off to him to\nthank him, and to say how sorry he was for having beaten her.\n\nBut there lived opposite a woman who was also in everything the\nopposite of this one. She was very handsome, but as bad in conduct\nas the other was good. However, when she saw the ugly wife become\nso handsome, she said to herself, 'If good Philip would only make\nme a little handsomer than I am, it would be a good thing for me;'\nand she went to Padre Filippo and asked him to make her handsomer.\n\nPadre Filippo looked at her, and he knew what sort of woman she was,\nand he raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over her, and\nprayed, and she became ugly; uglier even than the other woman had been!\n\n'Why have you treated me differently from the other woman?' exclaimed\nthe woman, for she had brought a glass with her to be able to\ncontemplate the improvement she expected him to make in her appearance.\n\n'Because beauty was of use to her in her state of life,' answered\nPadre Filippo. 'But you have only used the beauty God gave you as an\noccasion of sin; therefore a stumbling-block have I now removed out\nof your way.'\n\nAnd he said well, didn't he?\n\nOne Easter there came to him a young man of good family to confession,\nand Padre Filippo knew that every one had tried in vain to make him\ngive up his mistress, and that to argue with him about it was quite\nuseless. So he tried another tack. 'I know it is such a habit with\nyou to go to see her you can't give it up, so I'm not going to ask\nyou to. You shall go and see her as often as you like, only will you\ndo something to please me?'\n\nThe young man was very fond of good Philip, and there was nothing he\nwould have not done for him except to give up his mistress; so as he\nknew that was not in question, he answered 'yes' very readily.\n\n'You promise me to do what I say, punctually?' asked the saint.\n\n'Oh, yes, father, punctually.'\n\n'Very well, then; all I ask is that though you go to her as often\nas you like, you just pass by this way and come up and pull my bell\nevery time you go; nothing more than that.'\n\nThe young man did not think it was a very hard injunction, but when\nit came to performing it he felt its effect. At first he used to go\nthree times a day, but he was so ashamed of ringing the saint's bell\nso often, that very soon he went no more than once a day. That dropped\nto two or three times a week, then once a week, and long before next\nEaster he had given her up and had become all his parents could wish\nhim to be.\n\n\n\n\n7\n\n'There was another such case; just such another, only this man had a\nwife too, but he was so infatuated with the other, he would have it\nshe loved him the better of the two.'\n\n'Yes; and the other was a miniature-painter,' broke in corroboratively\na kind of charwoman who had come in to tidy the place while we were\ntalking.\n\n'Yes, she was a miniature-painter,' continued the narrator; 'but it's\nI who am telling the story.'\n\n'Padre Filippo said, \"How much do you allow her?\"'\n\n'Twenty pauls a day,' broke in the charwoman.\n\n'Forty scudi a month,' said the narrator positively.\n\n'There's not much difference,' interposed I, fearing I should lose\nthe story between them. 'Twenty pauls a day is sixty scudi a month. It\ndoesn't matter.'\n\n'Well, then, Padre Filippo said,' continued the narrator, '\"Now just\nto try whether she cares so much about you, you give her thirty scudi\na month.\"'\n\n'Fifteen pauls a day,' interposed the charwoman.\n\n'Thirty scudi a month!' reiterated the narrator.\n\n'Never mind,' said I. 'Whatever it was, it was to be reduced.'\n\n'Yes; that's it,' pursued the narrator; 'and he made him go on and\non diminishing it. She took it very well at first, suspecting he was\ntrying her, and thinking he would make it up to her afterwards.'\n\n'But when she found he didn't,' said the charwoman,\n\n'She turned him out,' said the narrator, putting her down with\na frown. 'He was so infatuated, however, that even now he was not\nsatisfied, and said that in stopping the money he had been unfair, and\nshe was in the right. So good Philip, who was patience itself, said,\n\"Go and pay her up, and we'll try her another way. You go and kill a\ndog, and put it in a bag, and go to her with your hands covered with\nblood, and let her think you have got into trouble for hurting some\none, and ask her to hide you.\" So the man went and killed a dog.'\n\n'It was a cat he killed, because he couldn't find a dog handy,'\nsaid the irrepressible charwoman.\n\n'Nonsense; of course it was a dog,' asseverated the narrator. 'But\nwhen he went to her house and pretended to be in a bad way, and asked\nher to have pity on him, she only answered: \"Not I, indeed! I'm not\ngoing to get myself into a scrape [206] with the law, for him!\" and\ndrove him away. And he came and told Padre Filippo.\n\n'\"Now,\" said good Philip, \"go to your wife whom you have abandoned\nso long. Go to her with the same story, and see what she does for you.\"\n\n'The man took the dead dog in the bag, and ran to the lodging where his\nwife was, and knocked stealthily at her door. \"It is I,\" he whispered.\n\n'\"Come in, husband,\" exclaimed the wife, throwing open the door.\n\n'\"Stop! hush! take care! don't touch me!\" said the husband. \"There's\nblood upon me. Save me! hide me! put me somewhere!\"\n\n'\"It's so long since you've been here, no one will think of coming\nafter you here, so you will be quite safe. Sit down and be composed,\"\nsaid the wife soothingly; and she poured him out wine to drink.\n\n'But the police were nearer than he fancied. He had thought to\nfinish up the affair in five minutes by explaining all to her. But\n\"the other,\" not satisfied with refusing him shelter, had gone and\nset the police on his track; and here they were after him.\n\n'The wife's quick ears heard them on the stairs. \"Get into this\ncupboard quick, and leave me to manage them,\" she said.\n\n'The husband safely stowed away, she opened the door without\nhesitation, as if she had nothing to hide. \"How can you think he is\nhere?\" she said when they asked for him. \"Ask any of the neighbours\nhow long it is since he has been here.\"\n\n'\"Oh, three years,\" \"four years,\" \"five,\" said various voices of\npeople who had come round at hearing the police arrive.\n\n'\"You see you must have come to the wrong place,\" she said. And the\nhusband smiled as he heard her standing out for him so bravely.\n\n'Her determined manner had satisfied the police; and they were just\nturning to go when one of them saw tell-tale spots of blood on the\nfloor that had dropped from the dead dog. The track was followed to\nthe cupboard, and the man dragged to prison. It was in vain that he\nassured them he had killed nothing but a dog.\n\n'\"Ha! that will be the faithful dog of the murdered man,\" said the\npolice. \"We shan't be long before we find the body of the man himself!\"\n\n'The wife was distracted at finding her husband, who had but so lately\ncome back to her, was to be taken away again; and he could discern\nhow real was her distress.\n\n'\"Go to Padre Filippo, and he will set all right,\" said the husband\nas they carried him away. The woman went to Padre Filippo, and he\nexplained all, amid the laughter of the Court. But the husband went\nback to his wife, and never left her any more after that.'\n\n\n[The story was told me another time with this variation, that the\npenitent was a peasant [207] who came up to Rome with his ass,\nand tied it to a pillar set up for the purpose outside the church,\nwhile he went in to confess. The first time he went, St. Philip told\nhim he must have nothing more to do with the occasion of sin, who in\nthis case was a spinner instead of a miniature-painter. The peasant\nwas so angry with the advice that he stayed away from confession a\nwhole year. At the end of the year he came back. St. Philip received\nhim with open arms, saying he had been praying ever since for his\nreturn to a better mind. The sum that formed the sliding-scale that\nwas to open his eyes to the mercenary nature of the affection he\nhad so much prized, was calculated at a lower rate than the other;\nbut the rest of the story was the same.]\n\n\n\n\n8\n\n'Ah, there's plenty to be said about Padre Filippo,' said the\ncharwoman; and I should have liked to put her under examination,\nbut that it would have been a breach of hospitality, as the other\nevidently did not like the interruption; so I was obliged to be\nsatisfied with the testimony she had already afforded of the popularity\nof the saint. 'Ha, good Padre Filippo, he was content to eat \"black\nbread\" like us'; and she took a hunch out of her pocket to show me;\n(it was only like our 'brown bread.')\n\n'There was no lack where he was. Once I know, with half a rubbio\n[208] of corn, he made enough to last all the community ten years,'\nshe, however, ran on to say before she could be dismissed.\n\n\n\n\n9\n\nOne day Padre Filippo was going over Ponte S. Angelo, when he met\ntwo little boys who seemed to attract his notice. 'Forty-two years\nhence you will be made a cardinal,' he said to one, as he gave him a\nfriendly tap with his walking-stick. 'And that other one,' he added,\nturning to his companion, 'will be dead in two years.'\n\nAnd so it came true exactly.\n\n\n\n\n10\n\nThere was another peasant who, when he came into Rome on a Sunday\nmorning, always went to the church where St. Philip was. [209]\n'You quite weary [210] one with your continual preaching about the\nBlessed Sacrament. I'm so tired of hearing about it, that I declare\nto you I don't care so much about it as my mule does about a sack of\ncorn.' Padre Filippo preferred convincing people in some practical\nway to going into angry discussions with them; so he did not say very\nmuch in answer to the countryman's remarks, but asked him the name of\nhis village. Not long after he went down to this village to preach;\nand had a pretty little altar erected on a hill-side, and set up the\nBlessed Sacrament in Exposition. Then he went and found out the same\ncountryman, and said, 'Now bring a sack of corn near where the altar\nis, and let's see what the mule does.' The countryman placed a sack\nof corn near the altar, and drove the mule by to see what it would do.\n\nThe mule kicked aside the sack of corn, and fell down on its knees\nbefore the altar; and the man, seeing the token, went to confession\nto St. Philip, and never said anything profane any more.\n\n\n\n\n11\n\nThere were two other fellows [211] who were more profane still, and\nwho said one to the other, 'They make such a fuss about Padre Filippo\nand his miracles, I warrant it's all nonsense. Let's watch till he\npasses, and one of us pretend to be dead and see if he finds it out.'\n\nSo said so done. 'What is your companion lying on the ground for?' said\nSt. Philip as he passed. 'He's dead! Father,' replied the other. 'Dead,\nis he?' said Padre Filippo; 'then you must go for a bier for him.' He\nhad no sooner passed on than the man burst out laughing, expecting his\ncompanion to join his mirth. But his companion didn't move. 'Why don't\nyou get up?' he said, and gave him a kick; but he made no sign. When\nhe bent down to look at him he found he was really dead; and he had\nto go for the bier.\n\n\n\n[Cancellieri has collected some curious incidents ('Morcato,'\np. 210-12, Appendix N. xxii.) concerning an attempt which was made\nby Princess Anne Colonna to obtain from Urban VIII. the authority to\nremove a part of the Saint's body to her chapel at Naples. The Fathers\nof the Oratory and the people were greatly averse to dividing it, as\nit was very well preserved in its entirety. By a fatality, which the\npeople readily believed to be providential, Monsig. Moraldo, who was\ncharged to bring the matter under the Pope's notice, forgot it every\ntime he was in attendance on the Pope, though it was the most important\nthing he had to say. At last he put the Bull concerning it out on\nhis desk that he might be sure to remember it, though otherwise he\nwould have kept it concealed, for it bore the endorsement, 'Per levare\n(to remove) parte del corpo di S. Filippo Neri.' While he was talking\nabout it to one of the papal secretaries standing near the window,\na priest, who had come about other matters, was shown in, and thus\nhappened to pass by the side of the table when the endorsement of the\nBull caught his eye. With all a Roman's desire to preserve the body\nto Rome intact, he immediately gave notice at the Oratory, and two\ncourageous young fathers took upon themselves to hide the body. When\nthe prelates, therefore, came shortly after to claim the fulfilment\nof the Bull, the Rector opened the shrine in good faith, but the body\nwas not there, and the report ran among the vulgar that it had been\nmiraculously removed. Subsequently the Rector gave them the heart,\nand drew a tooth of the Saint, which was a verbal compliance with the\nterms of the Bull, being certainly 'a part of the body.' Some years\nafter, the body was restored to its shrine, and in 1743 Prince Chigi\nprovided it with velvets and brocades to the value of 1,000 scudi.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PARDON OF ASISI. [212]\n\n\nSt. Felix, [213] St. Vincent, [214] and St. Philip went together once\nupon a time to the Pardon of Asisi.\n\nAs they were three great saints, the Pope sent for them as soon as\nthey came back, saying he had a question to ask them. It was Innocent\nIX. or X., I am not sure which; but I know it was an Innocent. [215]\nHe took them one by one, separately, and began with St. Felix.\n\n'Were there a great many people at the Pardon?' said the Pope.\n\n'Oh yes, an immense number,' answered simple St. Felix; 'I had not\nthought the whole world contained such a number.'\n\n'Then a vast number of sins must have been remitted that day?' said\nthe Pope.\n\nSt. Felix only sighed in reply.\n\n'Why do you sigh?' asked the Pope.\n\nSt. Felix hesitated to reply, but the Pope bade him tell him what\nwas in his mind.\n\n'There were but few who gained the indulgence in all that multitude,'\nreplied the Saint; 'for among them all were few who came with the\ncontrition required.'\n\n'How many were there who did receive it?' again asked the Pope.\n\nOnce more St. Felix hesitated till the Pope ordered him to speak.\n\n'There were only four,' he then said.\n\n'Only four!' exclaimed the Pope. 'And who were they?'\n\nSt. Felix showed even more reluctance to answer this question than the\nothers; but the Pope made it a matter of obedience, and then he said,\n\n'The four were Father Philip, Father Vincent, one old man, and one\nother.' [216]\n\nThe Pope next called for Father Vincent, and went through nearly the\nsame dialogue with him, and his list was\n\n'Father Philip, Father Felix, one old man, and one other.'\n\nThen the Pope sent for St. Philip, and held the same discourse with\nhim, and his list was\n\n'Father Vincent, Father Felix, one old man, and one other.'\n\nAnd the Pope saw that their testimony agreed together, and that each\nout of humility had abstained from naming that he was one of the four.\n\nBut when the people heard the story, they all began demanding that\nthe three fathers should be canonized.\n\n\n\n[Concerning St. Philip's devotion to the Portiuncula, Cancellieri,\n'Mercato,' \u00a7 xxi. note 7, records that he never missed attending it\nevery August at the little Church of S. Salvatore, in Onda, near Ponte\nSisto, now a hospice for infirm priests (he gives a curious inscription\nin note * * *), then in the hands of the Franciscans for many years,\nwhile he lived in the neighbouring Palazzo Caccia.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPADRE VINCENZO.\n\n\n1\n\nThere was Padre Vincenzo too, who wasn't much less than Good Philip\nhimself. He was a miracle of obedience. One day when he was ill the\nFather-General sent him a codfish. Padre Vincenzo sent back word to\nthank him, but said he couldn't eat it. 'Nonsense!' answered the\nFather-General, who thought he spoke out of regard to his love of\nabstinence. 'Nonsense! tell him he is to eat it all.' The message was\ngiven to Padre Vincenzo, who was really too ill to eat anything; but\nin his simplicity thinking he ought to obey, he ate the whole fish,\nhead, tail, bones, and all.\n\nBy-and-by the Father-General came to see him. He seemed almost at the\nlast gasp, suffocated by the effort he had made, and his throat all\nlacerated with swallowing the fish-bones. The Father-General praised\nthe simplicity of his obedience, but told the brother who took the\nmessage that he ought to have explained it better.\n\nBut Padre Vincenzo did not lose anything by his obedience, for that\nsame evening he was cured of his illness altogether, and was quite\nwell again.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nPadre Vincenzo worked so many miracles that all Rome was talking\nabout him, and the Father-General thought he would get vain, so he\ntold him not to work any more miracles. Padre Vincenzo therefore\nworked no more miracles; but one day as he was walking along the\nstreet, he passed under a high scaffolding of a house that was being\nbuilt. Just as he came by, a labourer missed his footing and fell\nover from the top. 'Padre Vincenzo, save me!' cried the man, for\neverybody knew Padre Vincenzo, and he had just seen him turn into\nthe street. 'Stop there!' said Padre Vincenzo; 'I mustn't save you,\nas the Padre-Generale says I'm not to work miracles; but wait there,\nand I'll go and ask if I may.' Then he left him suspended in the air\nwhile he ran breathless to ask permission of the Father-General to\nwork the miracle of saving him.\n\n\n\n\n3\n\nOne morning Padre Vincenzo had to pass through the Rotonda [217]\non business of his community. A temptation of the throat [218] took\nhim as he saw a pair of fine plump pigeons such as you, perhaps,\ncannot see anywhere out of the Rotonda hanging up for sale. Padre\nVincenzo bought the pigeons, and took them home secretly under his\ncloak. In his cell he plucked the pigeons, and cooked them over a\nlittle fire. The unwonted smell of roast pigeon soon perfumed the\ncorridor, and two or three brothers, having peeped through the keyhole\nand seen what was going on in Padre Vincenzo's cell, ran off to say\nto the Father-General,\n\n'What do you think Padre Vincenzo, whom we all reckon such a saint,\nis doing now! He is cooking pigeons privately in his cell.'\n\n'It's a calumny! I can't believe it of him,' answered the\nFather-General indignantly.\n\nThe spying brothers bid him come and see.\n\n'I am certain if I do, it will be to cover you with confusion in\nsome way or other for telling tales!' replied the Father-General as\nhe went with them.\n\nAs they passed along the corridor there was the smell of roast pigeon\nmost undeniably; but when the Father-General opened the cell door\nwhat did they see?\n\nPadre Vincenzo was on his knees, praying for forgiveness in a tone of\nearnest contrition; round his throat were tied the two pigeons, burning\nhot, as he had taken them from the fire. A spirit of compunction\nhad seized him as he was about to accomplish the unmortified act of\neating in his cell in contravention of his rule, and he had adopted\nthis penance for yielding in intention to the temptation.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPADRE FONTANAROSA.\n\n\n1\n\nThere was Padre Fontanarosa too. Did you never hear of him? He was\na good friend to the poor; and all Rome loved him. He was a Jesuit;\nbut somehow there were some Jesuits who didn't like him. Papa Braschi\n[219] was very fond of him, and used to make him come every day and\ntell him all that went on in Rome, for he was very good to the people,\nand that way the Pope heard what the people wanted; and many things\nthat were wrong got set right when Padre Fontanarosa explained to\nthe Pope the real state of the case.\n\nOne day Padre Fontanarosa said to the Pope, 'People say I have been\ntalking too freely, and call it telling tales; but I have only obeyed\nthe wishes of Your Holiness. If I have done wrong send me away.' But\nPapa Braschi answered, 'You have done me good service. Fear nothing.'\n\nThe next day after that Padre Fontanarosa did not come to the Vatican,\nor the next, or the next.\n\nThen Papa Braschi called for his carriage, and said, 'Drive to the\nGes\u00f9!' Arrived at the Ges\u00f9, he said, 'I want Padre Fontanarosa;\nwhere is he?'\n\nThey answered, 'In his cell.'\n\nBut he had been confined in his cell on bread and water for chattering.\n\n'Then let him be brought out of his cell; for I want him!' answered\nPapa Braschi.\n\nThat time he took Padre Fontanarosa away in his carriage, and no one\ndurst say anything to him any more.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nFather Fontanarosa was very simple in his habits himself; and\nhe thought the best way to keep the Order simple was to keep it\npoor. Whenever anyone wanted to leave money to it, instead of\nencouraging them, he used to tell them of some other good work to\nwhich they might leave it.\n\nOne day there was a penitent of his who was very devoted to the\nJesuits, a very rich nobleman, who came to die, and, as he was making\nhis will, he would have Padre Fontanarosa and the notary present\ntogether. 'I leave all of which I die possessed to the Church of the\nGes\u00f9,' dictated the rich nobleman.\n\n'What! do you leave all to the Son and nothing to the Mother!' said\nPadre Fontanarosa, who knew he was too weak to argue with him as to\nwhether the Order was better without the money or not, and therefore\nadopted this mode of avoiding the snare, without damaging the good\npurpose of the testator.\n\n'Ah! you are right,' answered the dying man. 'Thank you for reminding\nme. Make a codicil,' he said to the notary, 'and say I meant it for\nGes\u00f9 and Maria.'\n\nThe notary wrote just what he was bid, and the dying man and the\nwitnesses signed all duly. But the money had to go, not to 'the Ges\u00f9'\nat all, but to the church of 'Ges\u00f9 e Maria'--you know where, at the\nend of the Corso, which doesn't belong to the Jesuits at all, but to\nthe Augustinians.\n\n\n\n\n3\n\nOthers give him not quite such a good character, and tell the following\nstory of him:--\n\nThe reason why the Jesuits did not look favourably on Father\nFontanarosa was that they thought he went too often to the house of\na certain lady. He perceived that they had found out that he visited\nher, but he went on all the same, only he said to her, 'If anything\nhappens that the fathers send after me, and anyone comes into the\nroom suddenly; fall down on your knees before the crucifix, and I will\nspeak so that I may seem to be here to give you a penitential warning.'\n\nThere happened to be a handsome crucifix, kept more for ornament\nthan devotion, on a slab in her boudoir, and she promised to heed\nhis caution.\n\nOne day, when they were together, they heard a ring at the outer\ndoor; then a whispering in the passage; then footsteps in the\nadjoining room. Padre Fontanarosa looked at the lady, and the lady\nlooked at Padre Fontanarosa. Each understood that they were under\nsurveillance. She fell down on her knees before the crucifix, and he\nexhorted her to take a pattern from the Magdalen; and, as she knelt\nclasping the foot of the cross, with her beautiful hair all loose\nover her shoulders, she really looked like a living picture of the\nMagdalen. Still no one came into the room. But they felt they were\nbeing watched; so it was necessary to keep up the deception. Padre\nFontanarosa had to speak loudly and fervently in order to make\nhis words resound well in the adjoining room; the lady had to sob\nto show she was attending to them. Still no one came in; and Padre\nFontanarosa had to continue his discourse till, partly through fear\nlest his courage should fail, and partly lest he should be discovered,\nhe forced himself to forget present circumstances, and to throw himself\ninto his exhortation to such an extent that he preached with a force\nand eloquence he had never exercised in his life before.\n\nAt last those who had been listening felt satisfied of his sincerity,\nand went back to the General and told him there was no fault to be\nfound in him.\n\nBut so effectually had he preached, and so salutary had been his\nwarnings, that the next day the lady entered a convent, to be a\npenitent all her days.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nS. GIUSEPPE LABRE. [220]\n\n\n1\n\n'There was Giuseppe Labre too, and many wonderful things he did;\nhe was a great saint, as all the people in the Monti [221] knew. I\ndon't know if they've put all about him in books yet; if so, you may\nhave read it; but I can't read.'\n\n'I know a Life of him has been published; but tell me what you have\nheard about him all the same.'\n\nGiuseppe Labre, you know, passed much of his time in meditation in the\nColiseum; the arch behind the picture of the Second Station, [222]\nthat's where he used to be all day, and where he slept most nights,\ntoo. There was a butcher in the Via de' Serpenti who knew him, and kept\na little room for him, where he made him come and sleep when the nights\nwere bad and cold, or stormy. These people were very good to him,\nand, though not well off themselves, were ready to give him a great\ndeal more than he in his love for poverty would consent to accept.\n\nOne great affliction this butcher had; his wife was bedridden with\nan incurable disorder. One night there was a terrible storm, it was\na burning hot night in summer, and Giuseppe Labre came to sleep at\nthe butcher's. He was lying on his bed in the little room, which was\nup a step or two higher than the butcher's own room, where his wife\nlay, just as it might be where that cupboard is there. Presently the\nbutcher's wife heard him call her, saying,\n\n'Sora Angela, bring me a cup of water for the love of God!'\n\n'My friend, you know how gladly I would do anything to help you,\nbut my husband is not come up, and I have no one to send, and you\nknow I cannot move.'\n\nNevertheless Giuseppe called again, 'Sora Angela, bring me a cup of\nwater for the love of God!'\n\n'Don't call so, good friend,' replied she; 'it distresses me; you\nknow how gladly I would come if I could only move.'\n\nYet still the third time Giuseppe Labre said,\n\n'Sora Angela, hear me! Bring me a cup of water for the love of\nGod!' And he spoke the words so authoritatively that the good woman\nfelt as if she was bound to obey him, she made the effort to rise,\nand, can you believe it! she got up as if there was nothing the matter\nwith her; and from that time forward she was cured.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nThere was a poor cobbler who always had a kind word for Giuseppe\ntoo. One day Giuseppe Labre came to him, and said he wanted him to\nlend him a pair of shoes as he was going a pilgrimage to Loreto. The\ncobbler knew what a way it was from Rome to Loreto, and that there\nwould not be much left of a pair of shoes after they had done the\nway there and back. Had Labre asked him to give them, his regard for\nhim would have prompted him to assent however ill he could afford it;\nbut to talk of lending shoes to walk to Loreto and back seemed like\nmaking game of him, and he didn't like it. Nevertheless he couldn't\nfind it in his heart to refuse, and he gave him a pretty tidy pair\nwhich he had patched up strong to sell, but without expecting ever\nto see them again.\n\nGiuseppe Labre took the shoes and went to Loreto, and when he came\nback his first call was at the cobbler's shed; and sure enough he\nbrought the shoes none the worse for all the wear they had had. So\nperfectly uninjured were they that the cobbler would have thought they\nwere another pair had it not been that he recognised the patches of\nhis own clumsy work.\n\n\n\n\n3\n\nAnother more matter-of-fact account of this story was that he did\nnot wear the shoes on the journey, as he did that barefoot, i.e. with\nwooden sandals, and only borrowed the shoes to be decent and reverent\nin visiting the Sanctuary. In this case the story was told me to\nillustrate his conscientiousness both in punctually returning the\nshoes and in taking so much care of his trust.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWELVE WORDS OF TRUTH. [223]\n\n\nThis is a 'ritornella,' the whole being repeated over as each\nnew sentence is added. I remember, years ago, meeting the same in\nWiltshire, and then there was this additional refrain to be repeated:\n\n\n        'When want is all the go;\n        And it evermore shall be so.'\n\n\nThen it went on:\n\n\n        'I'll sing you three O;\n        Three O are rivo.'\n\n\nIf I remember right, there were no numbers before three-o. Four, were\nthe four Evangelists, and nine, the nine orders of angels, as in the\ntext; but the seventh line was 'seven are the seven bright stars in\nthe sky,' and this, taken in connexion with the text, establishes a\ncurious link in popular mythology between the mysterious Seven-branch\nCandlestick and the Ple\u00efades. Subjoined is a translation of the text.\n\n'One, and first, is the Lord God, ever ready to help us.' ('Domeniddio'\nis a popular way of naming God, like the French 'le bon Dieu,'\nidentical with the German 'unser Herrgott.') [224]\n\n'Two stands for the keys of heaven. There is gold.' (This would be\nthe literal rendering of this line, but it has manifestly been lamed\nby bad memory.) [225]\n\n'Three stands for three patriarchs, &c.' [226]\n\n'Four stands for the four columns which support the world, &c.' [227]\n\n'Five stands for the five wounds of Jesus Christ.' [228]\n\n'Six stands for the six cocks which crowed in Galilee.' [229]\n\n'Seven are the seven tapers that burnt in Jerusalem.' ('Cantorno' for\ncantarono, a vulgar transposition, like 'hunderd,' and 'childern,' in\nEnglish; 'ardorno' similarly, instead of 'arderono,' though 'arsero'\nwould be the correct form.) [230]\n\n'Eight' stands for the octave of Christ. (Probably in allusion to the\n'octave,' or eight days' festival, of Christmas.) [231]\n\n'Nine' stands for the nine quires of angels. [232]\n\n'Ten' stands for the ten years of Christ. (What 'ten years' it is\nnot easy to see.) [233]\n\n'Eleven' stands for the crowning with thorns. (St. Bridget or Soeur\nEmmerich, in their minute meditations or 'Revelations' on the Passion,\nhave fixed a number for the thorns in our Lord's crown, but I do\nnot remember what they make it; there may be a tradition that it was\neleven.) [234]\n\n'Twelve' stands for the Twelve Apostles. [235]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGHOST AND TREASURE STORIES AND FAMILY AND LOCAL TRADITIONS.\n\n\nTHE DEAD MAN IN THE OAK-TREE. [236]\n\n\nThere was a parcel of young fellows once who were a nuisance to\neverybody in Rome, for they were always at some mischievous tricks when\nit was nothing worse. But there was one of them who was not altogether\nso bad as the rest. For one thing, there was one practice of devotion\nhe had never forgotten from the days when his mother taught him, and\nthat was, to say a De Profundis whenever he saw a dead body carried\npast to burial. But what concerned his companions, was the fear lest\nhe should some day perhaps take it into his head to reform, and in\nthat case it was not impossible he might be led to give information\nagainst them.\n\nAt last they agreed that the best thing they could do was to put him\nout of the way. Quietly as their conspiracy was conducted, he saw\nthere was something plotting, and determined to be out of reach of\ntheir murderous intentions; so he got up early one morning, and rode\nout of Rome.\n\nOn, on, on, [237] he went till he had left Rome many miles behind,\nand then he saw hanging in an oak-tree the body of a man all in pieces,\namong the branches.\n\nFor a moment he was overcome with horror at the sight; but,\nnevertheless, he did not forget his good practice of saying a De\nProfundis.\n\nNo sooner had he completed the psalm, than one by one the pieces came\ndown from the tree and put themselves together, till a dead man stood\nbefore him, all complete. Gladly would he have spurred his horse on\nand got away from the horrible sight, but he was riveted to the spot,\nand durst not move, or scarcely take breath. But worse was in store,\nfor now the dreadful apparition took hold of his bridle.\n\n'Fear nothing, young man!' said the corpse, in a tone, which though\nmeant to be kind, was so sepulchral that it thrilled the ear. 'Only\nchange places with me for a little space; you get up in the oak-tree,\nand lend your horse to me.'\n\nThe youth mechanically got off his horse, and climbed up into the\ntree, while the mangled corpse got on to the horse, and rode away\nback towards Rome. He had not been gone five minutes when he heard\nfour shots [238] fired.\n\nLooking from his elevation in the direction of the sound, he saw\nhis four evil companions, who had just fired their pieces into the\ncorpse which rode his horse, without making it sit a bit less erect\nthan before. Then he saw them go stealthily up to the figure and look\nat it, and then run away, wild with terror.\n\nAs soon as they had turned their backs, the corpse turned the horse's\nhead round, and trotted back to the oak-tree.\n\n'Now, my son,' said the corpse, alighting from the horse, 'I have done\nyou this good turn because you said a De Profundis for me; but such\ninterpositions don't befall a man every day. Turn over a new leaf,\nbefore a worse thing happens.'\n\nHaving said this, the dead body, piece by piece, replaced itself amid\nthe branches of the oak-tree, where it had hung before.\n\nThe young man got on his horse again, penitent and thoughtful,\nand rode to a friary, [239] where, after spending an edifying life,\nhe died a holy death.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEAD MAN'S LETTER. [240]\n\n\nThere was a rich man, I cannot tell you how rich he was, who died and\nleft all his great fortune to his son, palaces and houses, and farms\nand vineyards. The son entered into possession of all, and became a\ngreat man; but he never thought of having a mass said for the soul\nof his father, from whom he had received all.\n\nThere was also, about the same time, a poor man, who had hardly enough\nto keep body and soul together, and he went into a church to pray\nthat he might have wherewithal to feed his children. So poor was he,\nthat he said within himself, 'None poorer than I can there be.' As he\nsaid that, his eye lighted on the box where alms were gathered, that\nmasses might be offered for the souls in Purgatory. 'Yes,' he said,\nthen, 'these are poorer than I,' and he felt in his pocket for his\nsingle baiocco, and he put it in the alms box for the holy souls. [241]\n\nAs he came out, he saw a painone [242] standing before the door, as\nif in waiting for him; but as he was well-dressed, and looked rich,\nthe poor man knew he could have no acquaintance with him, and would\nhave passed on.\n\n'You have done me so much good, and now you don't speak to me,'\nsaid the stranger.\n\n'When did I thee much good?' said the poor man bewildered.\n\n'Even now,' said the stranger; for in reality he was no painone,\nbut one of the holy souls who had taken that form, and he alluded to\nthe poor man's last coin, of which he had deprived himself in charity.\n\n'I cannot think to what your Excellency [243] alludes,' replied the\npoor man.\n\n'Nevertheless it is true,' returned the painone; 'and now I will\nask you to do me another favour. Will you take this letter to such\nand such a palace?' and he gave him the exact address. 'When you get\nthere, you must insist on giving it into the hands of the master of\nthe house himself. Never mind how many times you are refused, do not\ngo away till you have given it to the master himself.'\n\n'Never fear, your Excellency,' answered the poor man, 'I'll deliver\nit right.'\n\nWhen he reached the palace, it was just as the painone had seemed\nto expect it would be. First the porter came forward with his cocked\nhat and his gilt knobbed stick, with the coloured cord twisted over\nit all the way down, and asked him whither he was going.\n\n'To Count so-and-so,' answered the poor man.\n\n'All right! give it here,' said the splendid porter.\n\n'By no means, my orders were to consign it to the count himself.'\n\n'Go in and try,' answered the porter. 'But you may as well save\nyourself the stairs; they won't let such as you in to the count.'\n\n'I must follow orders,' said the poor man, and passed on.\n\nAt the door of the apartment a liveried servant came to open.\n\n'What do you want up here? if you have brought anything, why didn't\nyou leave it with the porter?'\n\n'Because my orders are to give this letter into the count's own hands,'\nanswered the poor man.\n\n'A likely matter I shall call the \"Signor Conte\" out, and to such as\nyou! Give here, and don't talk nonsense.'\n\n'No! into the count's own hands must I give it.'\n\n'Don't be afraid; I've lived here these thirty years, and no message\nfor the \"Signor Conte\" ever went wrong that passed through my\nhands. Yours isn't more precious than the rest, I suppose.'\n\n'I know nothing about that, but I must follow orders.'\n\n'And so must I, and I know my place too well to call out the \"Signor\nConte\" to the like of you.'\n\nThe altercation brought out the valet.\n\n'This fellow expects the \"Signor Conte\" to come to the door to take in\nhis letters himself,' said the lackey, laughing disdainfully. 'What's\nto be done with the poor animal?'\n\n'Give here, good man,' said the valet, patronisingly not paying much\nheed to the remarks of the servant; 'I am the \"Signor Conte's\" own\nbody servant, and giving it to me is the same as giving it to himself.'\n\n'Maybe,' answered the poor man, 'but I'm too simple to understand\nhow one man can be the same as another. My orders are to give it to\nthe count alone, and to the count alone I must give it.'\n\n'Take it from him, and turn him out,' said the valet, with supreme\ndisdain, and the lackey was not slow to take advantage of the\npermission. The poor man, however, would not yield his trust, and\nthe scuffle that ensued brought the count himself out to learn the\nreason of so much noise.\n\nThe letter was now soon delivered. The count started when he saw\nthe handwriting, and was impelled to tear the letter open at once,\nso much did its appearance seem to surprise him.\n\n'Who gave you the letter?' he exclaimed, in an excited manner, as\nsoon as he had rapidly devoured its contents.\n\n'I cannot tell, I never saw the person before,' replied the poor man.\n\n'Would you know him again?' inquired the count.\n\n'Oh, most undoubtedly!' answered the poor man; 'he said such strange\nthings to me that I looked hard at him.'\n\n'Then come this way,' said the count; and he led him into a large\nhall, round which were hung many portraits in frames. 'Do you see\none among these portraits that at all resembles him?' he said, when\nhe had given him time to look round the walls.\n\n'Yes, that is he!' said the poor man, unhesitatingly, pointing to the\nportrait of the count's father, from whom he had inherited such great\nwealth, and for whom he had never given the alms of a single mass.\n\n'Then there is no doubt it was himself,' said the count. 'In this\nletter he tells me that you of your poverty have done for him\nwhat I with all my wealth have never done,' he added in a tone of\ncompunction. 'For you have given alms for the repose of his soul, which\nI never have; therefore he bids me now take you and all your family\ninto the palace to live with me, and to share all I have with you.'\n\nAfter that he made the man and all his family come to live in the\npalace, as his father directed, and he was abundantly provided for\nthe rest of his life.\n\n\n\n['I know one of that kind,' interposed one sitting by. 'Will you hear\nit? But mine is true, mine is a real fact, and happened no longer\nago than last October;' and he told me the very names and address\nof the people concerned with the greatest particularity; this was in\nJanuary 1873.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE SOUL. [244]\n\n\nThe people he had named were a husband and wife, shopkeepers, with a\ngood business. They had taken in a woman, a widow, as they thought,\nto board with them for life. [245]\n\nThe first night after she came the wife suddenly woke up the husband,\nsaying:--\n\n'What is it that kneels at the foot of the bed? surely it is a\nwhite soul.'\n\n'I see nothing,' said the husband; 'go to sleep!'\n\nThe wife said no more, but the next night it was the same thing, and\nthe next, and the next; and she described so sincerely what she saw,\nand with so much earnestness, that the husband could have no doubt\nthat what she said was true. And as he saw it disturbed her rest,\nand made her ill, he said:--\n\n'If it comes again, to-night, we will conjure it.'\n\nIt had been going on almost a month (I told you it happened in\nOctober), and it was just the night of All Souls' day [246] that he\nhappened to say this.\n\nThat night, again, the wife woke him with a start--\n\n'There it is,' she said, 'the white soul; it kneels at the foot of\nthe bed.'\n\nThe husband said nothing, but following the direction of his wife's\nhand, he solemnly bid the apparition depart, in the name of the Most\nHoly Trinity and the Madonna.\n\nThough he had seen nothing, he, too, now heard a voice, and the voice\nsaid that it was her father whom the wife had seen; that it was not\nwell that they should have in the house the woman whom they had taken\nin to board, for that it was on her account he was now suffering\npenance. 'Think of this,' he said, finally, 'for I cannot stay to\ntell you more; for it is the hour of prayer.' [247]\n\nThe lighting up of a masked ball could not be compared to the\nbrightness [248] which filled the room as the spirit disappeared. And\nthis the husband saw well, though he had not seen the soul.\n\nThe husband and wife thought a good deal of what they had heard;\nthey had never known before of the father's intimacy with this woman,\nbut they inquired, and found it was even so.\n\nThen the man took into his head to go to one of these new people,\nwhat do they call it? spiritismo, magnetismo, [249] or whatever it\nis. He made them call up the spirit of his wife's father, and he\nasked if it was he who had appeared at night in the bedroom all the\nmonth through, and he said, 'yes, that it was.' And he asked him about\nall the particulars, and he confirmed them all. 'Then,' he said, 'if\nindeed it was you, give me some sign to-night;' and he said he would.\n\nThere was a ruler in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, and all\nthrough the night there were knocks; now on the ceiling, now on the\nfloor, now on the walls, as if given with that ruler, and we know\nthose 'spiritismo' people say the spirits make themselves understood\nby knocking.\n\nAfter that, they sent away their boarder, though at considerable\npecuniary loss.\n\n\n\n['I know a story like that,' said the first man, 'and a true one too;\nit happened in 1848 or 1849.']\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE SERPENT. [250]\n\n\nMy story is also of a husband and wife, but they were peasants,\nand lived outside the gates.\n\n'It is so cold to-night,' said the husband to the wife, as they\nwent to bed, 'we shall freeze if we have another night like it. We\nmust contrive to wake before it is light, and go and get some wood\nsomewhere before we go to work, to make a fire to-morrow night.'\n\nSo they woke very early, before it was light, and went out to get\nwood. [251] The husband stood up in the tree, and the wife down below\nin a ditch, or hole. As she stood there she saw a great white serpent\nglide past her. 'Look, look!' she cried to her husband; 'see that\ngreat white serpent; surely there is something unnatural about it!'\n\n'A white serpent!' answered her husband; 'what nonsense! Who ever\nheard of such a thing as a white serpent!'\n\n'There it goes, then,' said the wife; 'you can see it for yourself.'\n\n'I see nothing of the kind,' said the husband. 'There are no serpents\nabout Rome this many a long year; and as for a white one, such a\nthing doesn't exist.'\n\nWhile he spoke the serpent went through a hole in the ground. As the\nhusband was so positive, the wife said no more, but they gathered up\nthe wood and went home.\n\nIn the night, however, the wife had a dream. She saw an Augustinian\nfriar, long since dead, standing before her, who said 'Angela! (that\nwas indeed her name) if you would do me a favour listen to me. Did\nyou see a white serpent this morning?'\n\n'Yes,' she answered; 'that I did, though my husband said there was\nno such thing as a white serpent in existence.'\n\n'Well, if you would do me a pleasure, go back to the place where you\nsaw the white serpent go in--not where he came out, but where you saw\nhim go into the earth. Dig about that place, and, when you have dug a\npretty good hole, a dead man will start up; [252] but don't be afraid,\nhe can't hurt you, and won't want to hurt you. Take no notice of him,\nand go on digging, and no harm will come to you; you have nothing to\nbe afraid of. If you dig on you will come to a heap of money. Take\nsome of the biggest pieces of gold and carry them to St. Peter's,\nand take some of the smaller pieces and carry them to S. Agostino,\n[253] and let masses be said for that dead man. But you must tell no\none alive anything about it.'\n\nThe woman was much too frightened to do what the friar had said, but\nshe managed to keep the story to herself, though it made her look so\nanxious her husband could not help noticing something.\n\nThe next night the friar came again, and said the same words, only he\nadded: 'If you are so frightened, Angela, you may take with you for\ncompany a little boy, but he must not be over seven, nor under six;\nand what you do you must tell no one. But you have nothing to fear,\nfor if you do as I have said no one can harm you.'\n\nFor all his assurances, however, she could not make up her mind to\ngo, nor this day could she even keep the story from her husband,\nfor it weighed upon her mind. When he heard the story he said,\n'I'll go with you.'\n\n'Ah! if you'll go, then I don't mind,' she said. 'But how will it\nbe? The friar was so particular that I should tell no one, evil may\nhappen if I take another with me.'\n\n'If there is nothing in the story, there's nothing to fear,' said\nthe husband; 'and, if the story is true, there is a heap of money\nto reward one for a little fear; so let's go. Besides, if you think\nany harm will happen to you for taking me, I can stand on the top of\nthe bank while you go down to the hole, and it can't be said properly\nthat I'm there, while I shall yet be by to give you courage and help\nyou if anything happens.'\n\n'That way, I don't mind it,' answered the wife; and they went out\ntogether to the place, the husband, as he had said, standing by on\na bank, and the wife creeping down into a hole. They took also two\ndonkeys with them to bring away the treasure.\n\nAt the first stroke of the woman's spade there came such lugubrious\ncries that she was frightened into running away.\n\n'Don't be afraid,' said the husband; 'cries don't hurt!' So the woman\nbegan digging again, and then there came out cries again worse than\nbefore, and the noise of rattling of chains, dreadful to hear. So\nterrified was the woman that she swooned away.\n\nThe husband then went down into the hole with what water he could\nfind to bring her to herself, but the moment he got into the hole the\nspirits set upon him and beat him so that he had great livid marks\nall over.\n\nAfter that neither of them had the heart to go back to try it again.\n\nBut the woman was in the habit of going to confession to one of the\nAugustinian fathers, and she told him all. The fathers sent and had\nthe place dug up all about, and thought they had proved there was\nnothing there; but for all that, it generally happens that when a thing\nlike that has to be done, it must be done by the person who is sent,\nand anybody else but that person trying it proves nothing at all.\n\nOne thing is certain, that when those horrid assassins [254] hide a\nheap of money they put a dead man's body at the entrance of the hole\nwhere they hide it, and say to it, 'Thou be on guard till one of\nsuch a name, be it Teresa, be it Angela, be it Pietro, comes;' and\nno one else going can be of any use, for it may be a hundred years\nbefore the coincidence can happen of a person just of the right name\nlighting on the spot--perhaps never.\n\n'Yes, yes! that's a fact; that is not old wives' nonsense,' [255]\nwas the chorus which greeted this enunciation. [256]\n\n\n\n['I, too, know a fact of that kind which most certainly happened,\nfor I know Maria Grazia to whom it happened well, before she went to\nlive at Velletri,' said one of them.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROCESSION OF VELLETRI.\n\n\nMaria Grazia lived in a convent of nuns at Velletri, and did their\nerrands for them. One night one of the nuns who was ill got much\nworse towards night, and the factor [257] not being there, the\nSuperior called up Maria Grazia and said to her,--'Maria Grazia,\nSister Maria such a one [258] is so very bad that I must get you to\ngo and call the provost to her. I'm sorry to send you out so late,\nbut I fear she won't last till morning.'\n\nMaria Grazia couldn't say nay to such an errand, and off she set by a\nclear moonlight to go to the house of the provost, which was a good\nstep off and out of the town. All went well till Maria Grazia had\nleft the houses behind her, but she was no sooner in the open country\nthan she saw a great procession of white-robed priests and acolytes\nbearing torches coming towards her, chanting solemnly. 'What a fine\nprocession!' thought Maria Grazia; 'I must hasten on to see it. But\nwhat can it be for at this time of night?'\n\nStill she never doubted it was a real procession till she got quite\nclose, and then, to her surprise, the procession parted in two to\nlet her go through the midst, which a real procession would never\nhave done.\n\nYou may believe that she was frightened as she passed right through\nthe midst of those beings who must have belonged to the other world,\ndazed as she was with the unearthly light of the flaring torches;\nit seemed as if it would last for ever. But it did come to an end at\nlast, and then she was so frightened she didn't know what to do. Her\nlegs trembled too much to carry her on further from home, and if she\nturned back there would be that dreadful procession again. Curiosity\nprompted her to turn her head, in spite of her fears; and what gave\nher almost more alarm than seeing the procession was the fact that it\nwas no longer to be seen. What could have become of it in the midst\nof the open field? Then the fear of the good nun dying without the\nsacraments through her faint-heartedness stirred her, but in vain\nshe tried to pluck up courage. 'Oh!' she thought, 'if there were only\nsome one going the same road, then I shouldn't mind!'\n\nShe had hardly formed the wish when she saw a peasant coming along\nover the very spot where the procession had passed out of sight. 'Now\nit's all right,' she said; for by the light of the moon he seemed a\nvery respectable steady-looking peasant.\n\n'What did you think of that procession, good man,' said Maria Grazia;\n'for it must have passed close by you, too?'\n\nThe peasant continued coming towards her, but said nothing.\n\n'Didn't it frighten you? It did me; and I don't think I could have\nmoved from the spot if you hadn't come up. I've got to go to the\nprovost's house, to fetch him to a dying nun; it's only a step off\nthis road, will you mind walking with me till I get there?'\n\nThe peasant continued walking towards her, but answered nothing.\n\n'Maybe you're afraid of me, as I was of the procession, that you\ndon't speak,' continued Maria Grazia; 'but I am not a spirit. I am\nMaria Grazia, servant in such and such a convent at Velletri.'\n\nBut still the peasant said nothing.\n\n'What a very odd man!' thought Maria Grazia. 'But as he seems to\nbe going my way he'll answer the purpose of company whether he\nspeaks or not.' And she walked on without fear till she came to\nthe provost's house, the peasant always keeping beside her but never\nspeaking. Arrived at the provost's gate she turned round to salute and\nthank him, and he was nowhere to be seen. He too had disappeared! He\ntoo was a spirit!\n\nWhen the archpriest came he had his nephew and his servant to go\nwith him, and they carried torches of straw, [259] for it seems in\nthat part of the country they use straw torches; so she went back in\ngood company.\n\nAnd Maria Grazia told me that herself.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSMALLER GHOST AND TREASURE STORIES AND FAMILY AND LOCAL TRADITIONS.\n\n\n1\n\nBut the belief in ghosts, though it exists, as we have seen by the\nabove specimens, is by no means generally diffused. 'No! [260] I\ndon't believe such things,' is the general reply I have received when\ninquiring for them. I could not, indeed, help being annoyed with the\nstrongmindedness of an old woman one day, who asserted her contempt\nfor the idea so persistently that she quite 'shut up' two others who\nwere inclined to be communicative of their experiences.\n\n'I've often slept in a room where it was said the ghost of a woman\nwho was killed there, walked about with her head under her arm;\nbut I never saw her,' said I, to set the thing going.\n\n'Oh! I wouldn't have done that for the world!' exclaimed Nos. 2 and\n3 together.\n\n'And why not?' said No. 1. 'There was nothing to be seen, of\ncourse. There are no such things as ghosts!' [261]\n\n'Ah! Some see them and some don't see them, and you're one of those\nwho don't see them. That's where it is,' said No. 2.\n\n'Yes,' added No. 3; 'I know lots of people who have seen them,'\nand she was going on to give examples, but No. 1 put her down.\n\n'Did you ever see one yourself?' interposed I, to keep the ball\nrolling.\n\n'Well, yes ... so far that ...' she began, hesitatingly; but No. 1\nbroke in again with her vehement iteration that there are no ghosts.\n\n'I know there are, though,' persisted No. 2; 'for my mother has told\nme there is a house....'\n\n'Here in Rome?' asked I.\n\n'Yes, here in Rome, where she used to work, where there was a ghost\n[262] that used to pull the bedclothes off anyone who slept in that\nparticular room, and leave him uncovered. As fast as you pulled them\nover you, the spirit pulled them off again;' and she imitated the\nmovement with her hands.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\n'Oibo!' interposed No. 1. 'I'll tell you what ghosts are. Ghosts\nare most often robbers, who get people to think they are ghosts,\nin order to be able to rob in peace. There was a famous one,\nI remember well, about the year 1830, who used to be called the\nGhost of St. John's, [263] because he used to make himself heard\nin the houses about St. John Lateran. There were several robberies\nin the same neighbourhood just at the same time, but no one thought\nof connecting the two things, till at last one bethought him of it,\nand he laid in wait, pistol in hand, till the ghost came by.\n\n'By it came; and \"pop!\" went the pistol. And there, on the spot,\nlay the body of one whom the police didn't see for the first time.\n\n'That's what ghosts are!'\n\n'That may have been,' replied Nos. 2 and 3; 'but that doesn't prove\nthat there are no ghosts for all that.'\n\n\n\n\n3\n\n'Ghosts! ghosts! are all in silly people's own heads!' exclaimed\nNo. 1. 'I can tell you of one there was in an old palace at Foligno. No\none would sleep there because of the ghosts, and the palace became\nquite deserted. At last a sportsman, [264] who was a relation of mine,\nsaid he wasn't afraid; he would go up there one night, and give an\naccount of it. He went there, pistol in hand. At the time for the\nghosts to appear, in through a hole over the window did come a great\nthing with wings. The sportsman, nothing daunted, fired at it; and,\nlo and behold, a large hawk [265] fell dead on the floor; then another,\nand another, up to five of them.\n\n'That's what ghosts are, I tell you!'\n\n\n\n[The following is from another narrator.]\n\n\n\n\n4\n\nSome friars were going round begging for their convent, when night\novertook them in a wood.\n\n'What shall we do if any wolves come? I don't believe there is any\nhabitation in these parts, and there will be no place to run to and\nno one to help us. We must commend ourselves to the Madonna, and wait\nthe event.'\n\nThey had scarcely done so when one of them saw a light sparkling\nthrough the trees. They thought it came from some woodman's cottage,\nand followed its leading; but instead of a cottage they came to\na handsome inn. As the door stood invitingly open they went in:\na fire blazed on the hearth; a repast was spread on the table; a\nnumber of maidens, attired in pure and shining white, flitted about\nand brought all they wanted. When they had well supped, these led\nthem to a room where was a bed apiece, and in the morning again they\ngave them breakfast.\n\nBefore they started again, the friars asked the maidens to take them\nto offer their thanks to the mistress of the house, and they led them\ninto a room where was a most beautiful lady, who inquired kindly if\nthey had been well served and wished them a good journey. Moreover,\nas they went she gave them a folded paper.\n\nThe friars, unused to be so entertained, were much bewildered, and\nwondered what lady it could be who lived all alone with her maidens\nin that wild wood; and they turned back to look at the inn that they\nmight know it again, but it had entirely disappeared, nor was there\na vestige of it to be found.\n\nThen they opened the folded paper the lady had given them, and by\nthe shining letters within they knew it was the Madonna herself had\nentertained them.\n\n\n\n\n5\n\nAnother, who didn't believe there were ghosts to be seen--'she had\nheard plenty of such stories, but she didn't give her mind to such\nthings,'--yet told me, she believed there were treasures hid in\ncountless places, [266] but people could seldom get at them; there\nwas always a hailstorm, or an earthquake, or something, which happened\nto stop them; the Devil wouldn't let people get at them.\n\n\n\n\n6\n\nAnother, whose belief in ghosts was doubtful, reckoned she knew\nvarious cases to be facts, in which men hid treasures under a spell,\nthat could be removed if a person could devise the counterspell, by\nhitting, even accidentally, on what the original spell had been. [267]\n\n\n\n\n7\n\n'If you want ghost-stories, I can tell them as well as another;\nbut mind I don't believe such things,' said another.\n\n'Tell me what you've heard, then.'\n\n\n\n'Well, I have heard say that there was a woman in the Monti, [268] and\nnot so long ago either, who was always finding money about the house,\nand that too, in places where she knew no one could have put it. The\nfirst thing in the morning when she got up she would find it on the\nfloor all about the room. Or if she got up from her work in the middle\nof the day, though she knew no one had come in, there it would be.\n\n'One day she saw three silver papetti [269] on the floor. It wasn't\nthat there was no silver money ever to be seen, and nothing but dirty\npaper notes, and half of them false, as it is now o' days. It was in\nthe time of the Pope, and there was plenty of silver for those who\nhad money at all, but still, to see three silver papetti lying on\nthe floor all of a sudden was a sight for anyone.\n\n'It looked so strange that she hesitated before she picked it up. But\nat last she made up her mind and took it. No sooner had she done so\nthan a spirit appeared before her, and said, \"Come down with me into\nthe cellar and I'll show you something.\"\n\n'\"No, thank you, sir,\" said the woman, not knowing what to do for fear.\n\n'\"Nonsense! come down, you shan't be hurt,\" said the spirit.\n\n'\"I'd rather not, sir, thank you,\" was all the woman could stammer out.\n\n'\"You must come! I'll give you something to make you rich for good\nand all,\" persisted the spirit; and, somehow, she didn't know how,\nshe felt herself obliged to follow him.\n\n'Down in the cellar was another spirit awaiting her, and the moment\nshe got down they took her, the one by the head and the other by the\nfeet, and laid her into a coffin [270] which stood there all ready on a\nbier. [271] One at each end, they took it up, with the woman in it, and\nwalked round and round the cellar with it, chaunting the \"Miserere,\"\nand she was too frightened to call out, much more to attempt to move.\n\n'By-and-by they set the bier down, and as she heard nothing more\nshe concluded the spirits were gone; still she durst not move till\nsome few rays of daylight began to peep through; then she summoned\nup courage to get out of the coffin.\n\n'When she did so she saw it was all of solid gold, as well as the\nbier. There was gold enough to have made her rich to the end of her\ndays, but she was so frightened that she wasn't able to enjoy it,\nbut died at the end of a month; for riches that are got in ways that\nare not straightforward never profit anyone.\n\n'That's the story as it's told; but I don't believe those things,\nmind you.'\n\n\n\n\n8\n\n'Ah! I remember, too, when I was quite a girl and lived with my father\nand mother in a house near Piazza Barberini, I remember one day my\nlittle sister Ghisa coming running up out of the cellar crying out\nthere was a spirit which had stood waving its hand, and beckoning\nto her.\n\n'And when the others went down to see what it was all about, they\ndid find some human bones in a corner of the cellar, and no one knew\nhow they got there. But that didn't prove that the child had actually\nseen a ghost.'\n\n\n\n\n9\n\n[The above story of the golden coffin, it will be observed, was told\nas of a particular district in Rome. Another time, it was told me of\na village in the Campagna; the narrator said she knew the name well,\nbut could not recollect it at the moment. In other respects, there\nwere few differences of detail; but the countrywoman was more robust\nand courageous than the town woman, and this is how she got on.]\n\n\n\n'She was always finding half-pence about the ground where she\nworked. One day she found a silver piece; as she went to pick it up she\nsaw \"One\" standing by. \"Come with me!\" he said; and the countrywoman,\nnot at all afraid, went with him. He led her by solitary ways till\nhe came to a lone empty cottage, when he left her. Quite undaunted,\nshe walked in. There was a large empty room in the midst, all lighted\nup with ever so many lights.\n\n'\"Don't touch, don't touch!\" screamed an anxious\nvoice. \"Touch! touch!\" shouted a more gloomy voice. At last she\ndid touch.'\n\n\n\n['Touched what?' asked I; 'the lights, or the floor, or what?'\n\nThe narrator was posed by the question.\n\n'Oh, I don't know what she touched. It must be supposed she touched\nsomething.']\n\n\n\n'Instantly all the lights went out, and she stood in the strange place\nin the dark. Still she was not frightened. She had the courage to\nstrike a light. By its means she saw there was now a large coffin in\nthe midst of the room. She went straight up to it and opened it. It\nwas full of money! Waiting till daylight, she took home with her as\nmuch as ever she could carry. But she kept her own counsel, and never\ntold anyone, and when she wanted money she went back there and took it.\n\n'But if she never told anyone, how did anyone know the story?'\n\n\n\n\n10\n\n'This one now is quite true, for Sora Maria (you know who I mean)\ntold me of it, and she knew the woman as well as her own sister.\n\n'This woman lived near the church of S. Spirito de Napoletani--you\nknow it?'\n\n'Yes, in Via Giulia.'\n\n'Exactly. Well, she used to take in washing to make a little for\nherself more than what her husband gave her. But he didn't like her\ndoing it, and was very angry whenever he saw her at it. But as he\nwas out all day at his work, she used to manage to get through with\nit in his absence pretty well.\n\n'One day the water would not boil, all she could do. First she\ngot excited, then she got angry. \"It isn't that I care,\" she said;\n\"but if my husband comes home and sees what I am doing he'll be so\nangry! What will he say! What shall I do! I would give my soul to\nthe devil only to get it boiling in time!\"\n\n'Scarcely had she said the words when blu, blu, blu! the water\nbegan to bubble up in the pot, boiling furiously all of a sudden,\nand though it was now so short a time before her husband came back,\nall the work was done and out of sight, and he perceived nothing.\n\n'In the night came a paino, [272] and stood in the doorway of the\nbedroom and beckoned to her; and as she looked she saw that every\nnow and then flames and sparks flew about, out of him.\n\n'At last she could stand it no longer, and she woke her husband and\ntold him all. The husband could see nothing, and tried to quiet\nher, but she kept crying out, now, \"Here he is, here!\" and now,\n\"There he is, there!\" till at last he was obliged to call the friars\nof S. Spirito de' Napolitani to her to exorcise the spirit; and it\nwas very difficult, because she had promised to give her soul to\nthe devil; but it had been thoughtlessly done, and in the end the\napparition was got rid of.'\n\n\n\n[It so happens, however, that the church of S. Spirito de' Napolitani\nis served by secular priests, and not friars.]\n\n\n\n\n11\n\n'Here's another thing I have heard that will do for you.\n\n'There were two who took a peasant and carried him into the Campagna.'\n\n'What! two ghosts?'\n\n'No, no! two fellows who had more money than they knew what to do\nwith. They took him into the Campagna and made an omelette very good,\nwith plenty of sweet-scented herbs in it, and made him eat it.\n\n'Then they took a barrel and measured him against it, and then another,\ntill they found one to fit, and killed him and filled it up with money,\nand made a hole in the earth and buried it.\n\n'And they said over it, \"No one may disturb you till one comes who\nmakes an omelette with just the same sweet-scented herbs as we have\nused, and makes it just on the top of this hole. Then, come out and\nsay, 'This gold is yours.'\"\n\n'And, of course, in the ordinary course of things, no one would have\nthought of making an omelette with just those same herbs, just on\nthe top of that hole. But there was one who knew the other two, and\nsuspected something of what they were going to do, and he went up\nand hid himself in a tree, and watched all that was done, and heard\nthe words.\n\n'As soon as they were gone he came down and took some nice fresh eggs,\nand just the same sweet-scented herbs the others had used, and made\nan omelette just over the hole where he had seen them bury the barrel\nwith the money and the man in it.\n\n'He had no sooner done so than the man came out all whole and well,\nand said: \"Oh, how many years have I been shut up in that dark place\"\n(though he hadn't been there half-an-hour) \"till you came to deliver\nme! Therefore all the gold is yours.\"\n\n'Such things can't be true, so I don't believe them; but that's what\nthey tell.'\n\n\n\n\n12\n\n'And don't they tell other stories about there being treasures hid\nabout Rome?'\n\n'Oh, yes; and some of them are true. It is quite certain that ----'\n(and she named a very rich Roman prince) 'found all the money that\nmakes him so rich bricked up in a wall. They were altering a wall,\nand they came upon some gold. It was all behind a great wall, as big\nas the side of a room--all full, full of gold. When they came and\ntold him he pretended not to be at all surprised, and said: \"Oh, yes;\nit's some money I put away there; it's nothing; leave it alone.\" But\nin the night he went down secretly and fetched it away, [273] and\nthat's how he became so rich; for his father was a money-changer,\nwho had a table where he changed money in the open street, and my\nfather knew him quite well.'\n\n\n\n\n13\n\n'Then there's the ----' (another rich family). 'They got their money\nby confiscation of another [274] family, generations ago. That's why\nthey're so charitable. What they give away in charity to the poor\nis immense; but it is because they know how the money came into the\nfamily, and they want to make amends for their ancestors.'\n\n\n\n[These treasure stories are common everywhere. In Tirol, especially,\nthey abound, and are of two kinds. First, concerning treasure hidden in\nthe earth, arising out of the metal mines that were formerly worked\nthere, and the carbuncles which are still found; and the second,\nprecisely like these, of money walled-up in old houses and castles. A\ncountryman, who saw me sketching the old ruin of Monte Rufiano,\non a height not far from the banks of Lake Thrasimene, told me a\nstory about it, just like a Tirolese story, of treasure hidden ever\nso deep under it, and guarded by twelve spectres, who went about,\ncarrying torches in procession, on a Good Friday.\n\nSenhor de Saraiva tells me there is a great variety of such stories\nin Portugal, where the treasures are generally said to have been\nhidden by the Moors, and are supposed to be buried under a gigantic\ndepth of rock. A place was once pointed out to him, where there\nwere said to be two enormous jars, one full of gold, and the other\nof boiling pitch. If, in digging, a man came upon the right one,\nhe would be rich enough to buy up the whole world; but if, by ill\nluck, his spade first reached the other, the pitch would overflow\nand destroy everyone on the face of the earth; so that no one dared\nto make the attempt. The people believe that such localities may be\nrevealed to them in dreams. But they must dream the same dream three\nnights running, and not tell it to anyone. If they tell it, they will\nfind the money all turned to charcoal. Brick boxes of charcoal have\nfrequently been found buried under Roman boundary stones in Portugal,\nand in this, he thinks, lies the origin of this latter fancy.\n\n\n\nIt is remarkable how many odds and ends of history remain laid up\nin the memories of the Roman people, like the majolica vases and\npoint-lace in their houses. A great favourite with them is the story\nof Beatrice Cenci, which they tell, under the name of 'La bella Cenci,'\nwith more or less exaggeration of detail.\n\n'Do you know the story of \"Sciarra Colonna?\"' said an old woman,\nwho seemed scarcely a person likely to know much about such matters.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n1\n\nSCIARRA COLONNA.\n\n\nThere were two of the Colonna. One was Sciarra; I don't know the\nname of the other. They were always fighting against the pope of\ntheir time. [275] At last they took him and shut him up in a tower in\nthe Campagna, and kept him there till they had starved him to death;\nand when the people found him afterwards, what do you think?--in his\nextremity he had gnawed off all the tips of his fingers.\n\nWhen these two Colonna found they had actually killed a Pope, they\ngot so frightened that they ran away to hide themselves. They ran\naway to France, to Paris, and at last, when all the money they were\nable to carry with them was spent, they were obliged to take a place\nas stablemen in the king's palace, and they washed the carriages and\ncleaned down the horses like common men. But they couldn't hide that\nthey were great lords; the people saw there was something different\nfrom themselves about them, and they watched them, and saw that they\nwaited on each other alternately every day at table, and you could see\nwhat great ceremony they were used to. Then other things were seen,\nI forget what now, but little by little, and by one thing and another,\npeople suspected at last who they really were.\n\nThen some one went and told the king of France, and he had them called\nup before him.\n\nThey came just as they were, in their stable clothes, wooden shoes\n[276] and all.\n\nThe king sat to receive them in a raised seat hung all round with\ncloth of gold, and he said:\n\n'Now, I know one thing. You two are hiding from justice. Who you are I\ndon't know exactly for certain. I believe you are the Colonna. If you\nconfess you are the Colonna, I will make the affair straight for you;\nbut, if you will not say, then I will have you shut up in prison till\nI find out who you are, and what you have done.'\n\nThen they owned that they were the Colonna, [277] and the king sent\nan ambassador to the Pope that then was, and the thing was arranged,\nand after a time they came back to Rome.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nDONNA OLIMPIA.\n\nThe vices of the rich are never forgotten by the people, and the\ntraditions that still are current in Rome about Donna Olimpia [278]\nare such that I have had to refuse to listen to them. But I feel\nbound to mention them here, because it is curious that they should so\nlive on for more than two hundred years (the traditions of Sciarra\nColonna, however, are six hundred years old). They have, doubtless,\nrather gained than lost in transmission. Cardinal Camillo Pamfili,\nDonna Olimpia's son, presents one of those rare instances of which\nhistory has only five or six in all to record, in which, for the\nsake of keeping up the succession to a noble or royal house, it has\nbeen permitted [279] to leave the ecclesiastical state for married\nlife. [280] The singularity of this incident has impressed it in\nthe memory of the people, and her promotion of it has contributed\nto magnify, not only the fantastic element in their narratives, but\nalso the popular feeling against her; thus she is accused of having\nhad a second object in promoting it, namely, to get the place in\nthe pontifical household thus vacated filled by a very simple [281]\nnephew, and thus increase her own importance at the papal court. The\npasquinades written about her in her own age were such that Cancellieri\n[282] tells us 'spies were set, dressed in silk attire, to discover\nthe authors of such lampoons (motti vituperosi).'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MUNIFICENCE OF PRINCE BORGHESE.\n\n\n[If the Romans remember the vices of their princely families, they\nare proud of storing up the memory of their virtues too; and the\nfollowing narrative was told me with great enthusiasm.]\n\n\n\nLiberality is a distinguishing characteristic of the Borghese\nfamily. It was always a matter of emulation who should get taken into\ntheir service, and no one who was once placed there ever let himself\nbe sent away again, it was too good a thing to lose.\n\nThere was a man-servant, however, once who gave the Prince, I think it\nwas the father of this one, an insolent answer, and he turned him off.\n\nNo one would take that man. Wherever he applied, when they asked him,\n'Where have you lived?' and he answered, 'in casa Borghese,' everyone\nanswered, 'Oh, if you couldn't live with Borghese, I'm sure I've\nnothing better to offer you!' and the door was shut in his face. It\nwasn't in one place or two, but everywhere, Borghese's character is\nso well known in Rome. As he couldn't get a place, however, he was\nreduced to near starvation, and he had a wife and six children, all\nwith nothing to eat. Every article of furniture went to the Monte di\nPiet\u00e0, and almost every article of clothing; and yet hunger stared\nthem in the face.\n\nThen the man got desperate, and he went out one night and waited for\nBorghese in a lonely street in the dark, with a knife in his hand,\nand said, 'Your purse!'\n\nBorghese thought he had a gang behind him, round the corner, and handed\nhim his purse. But the man only took out three pauls and gave it back,\nand he looked so thin and haggard that Borghese could not but notice\nit, dark as it was, though he had forgotten his face.\n\n'That is not a thief, he is some poor fellow who wants relief,'\nsaid Borghese to his servant. 'Go after him and see what he does,\nbut take care not to be seen,' and he walked home alone. In less\nthan half an hour the servant came back. He had seen him spend the\nthree pauls in food; had seen him take it home to his family; had\nseen them scarcely covered with rags; had seen the room denuded of\nfurniture; had heard the man say, as he put the food on the table,\n'Here is wherewith to keep you alive another day, and to-morrow I\ndie in sin, for I had to steal it.'\n\nThen Borghese called up the steward (Maestro di Casa), and told him\nto go to the house and find out who the man was, and leave them what\nwas wanted for the night.\n\nThe steward did as he was told, and left a scudo that the man might\nget a supper without eating stolen food, but without saying who sent\nhim, for he had learnt by his inquiries that he was the servant whom\nBorghese had sent away.\n\nThe next day Borghese sent and clothed all the family; furnished\ntheir place again for them; put the children to schools, and gave\nthe parents ten scudi a month. He wouldn't take the man back, having\nonce had to send him away--for that was his rule--but he gave him a\npension for the rest of his life.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n'POPE JOAN.'\n\n\n'You know, of course, that there was once a Papessa? They have put\nthat in the books, I suppose?'\n\n'I know there is such a story, but learned writers have proved it\nwas a mere invention.'\n\n'Well, I daresay it isn't true; but there's no one in Rome who has not\nheard of it. And what makes them believe it is this. [283] Outside of\nSt. Peter's somewhere there's a statue of her all among the apostles\nand saints; and they say it's because a Pope must have a statue,\nand they didn't dare to put hers inside the church, so they put it\nup outside. And if it isn't a Papessa, what is a woman's statue doing\nthere, for it wasn't the Madonna, that's certain?'\n\n'Oh! that's a statue of Religion, or the Church. [284] There never\nwas a woman-pope.'\n\n'Ah, well! you read books. I dare say you know best; but, anyhow,\nthat's what they say. And, after all, who knows!'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGIACINTA MARESCOTTI.\n\n\nThere was a prince Marescotti, [285] who had two daughters, Cecilia and\nGiacinta. From her childhood Cecilia had always been gentle and pious,\nand everyone said, 'When she grows up she will be a nun.' Giacenta\nwas proud, handsome, and passionate, and everyone said, 'She will be\na leader of society, and woe betide whoso offends her.'\n\nBut their father, good man, [286] knew them better, and one day he\nannounced to them the choice of a state of life which he had made\nfor them; for the pious, gentle Cecilia there was a great lord coming\nfrom abroad to make her his wife; but the proud, passionate Giacinta\nwas to enter a convent.\n\nThe one was as dismayed as the other at the time, though the event\nshowed he had chosen right. Cecilia, who loved quiet and repose,\ntenderly entreated her father to let her off the anxieties and\nresponsibilities of becoming the head of a great family, while Giacinta\nmade a great noise [287] at the idea of her beauty and talents being\nlaid up hidden in a nun's cell. Nevertheless, in those days long gone\nby, girls were used to obey. [288] Cecilia married and proved herself\nan exemplary wife and mother, and carried respect for religion wherever\nshe went.\n\nGiacinta, on the other hand, took all her worldly state into her\nconvent with her; her cell was furnished like the drawing-room of a\npalace, and she insisted on having her maids to wait on her; the other\nnuns she scarcely spoke to, and treated as the dust under her feet.\n\nOne day the bishop came to visit the convent. 'What a smell!' [289]\nhe said, as he passed the cell of Giacinta Marescotti.\n\n'A smell, indeed! In my cell which is not only the sweetest in\nthe convent, but which is the only one fit to go into!' exclaimed\npoor Giacinta in deep indignation. 'What can you possibly mean by\n\"a smell!\"'\n\n'A smell of sin!' responded the bishop; and it was observed that for\na wonder Giacinta made no retort.\n\n'A smell of sin,' said Giacinta to herself, as she sat alone in her\nelegant and luxurious cell that night. The words had touched her\nsoul and awakened a train of thoughts latent and undisturbed till\nthen. Always hitherto she had ambitioned the loftiest, most refined\nobjects of research, and thought she knew the secret of attaining\nthem. The bishop's words spoke to her of there being 'a more excellent\nway' yet. They cast a light upon a higher path than that which she\nwas treading, and revealed to her that those who walked along it,\nlowly as they might seem, could afford to look down upon hers.\n\nShe saw that those who despised distinctions were grander than those\nwho courted them, to become, in the end, their slaves; that those\nwho aspired to celestial joys were nobler than those who surrounded\nthemselves with the most exquisite luxuries of earth. [290]\n\nFrom that day, little by little, [291] Giacinta's cell grew nearer\nand nearer to the pattern of the House of Nazareth. The mirror,\nthe cosmetics, and the easy couch made way for the crucifix, the\ndiscipline, and the penitential chain. [292] From having been shunned\nas a type of worldliness, she became to her whole order a model of\nhumility and mortification. [293]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPASQUINO. [294]\n\n\n1\n\n'No, I can't say I remember any pasquinades, not to repeat; but I\nknow what happened once when they tried to stop them.\n\n'There had been so many one time that the Government put a guard all\nround about Pasquino to watch and see who did it, but for a long time\nthey saw no one.\n\n'One night, at last, a clownish countryman came by with a bundle of\nhay on his back, drivelling and half silly. \"Let me sit here a bit\nto rest; I'm so weary with carrying this load I can't go any farther;\nbut I won't do any harm.\"\n\n'The guards laughed at the poor idiot's simplicity in fancying they\ncould expect such as he to be the author of the witty, pungent sort\nof wares they were on the search for, and said with contemptuous pity,\n\"Yes, yes; you may sit there!\" And the stupid old countryman sat down\nat the foot of the statue.\n\n'\"Heaven reward you for your kindness!\" he said, when he got up after\nhalf-an-hour's rest.\n\n'\"Don't mention it; go in peace!\" returned the guards, and the man\npassed out of sight.\n\n'Next morning, high over head of Pasquino floated a gay paper balloon.\n\n'\"The balloon! the balloon!\" screamed the street urchins.\n\n'\"The balloon! the balloon!\" shouted a number of men, assembled by\npreconcerted arrangement, though seemingly passers-by attracted by\nthe noise.\n\n'The clumsy clodhopper of overnight was an adroit fellow disguised,\nand he had attached the string of the balloon to the statue.\n\n'To seize the string, pull down the balloon, and burst it was quick\nwork; but out of it floated three hundred and sixty-six stinging\npasquinades, which were eagerly gathered up.'\n\n\n\n\n2\n\n'Many a time a simple exterior is a useful weapon; but when a man\nwho is really simple pretends to be clever he is soon found out. For\nanother time there had been a pasquinade which so vexed the Government\nthat the Pope declared whoever would acknowledge himself the author\nof it should have his life spared and five hundred scudi reward.\n\n'One day a simple-looking rustic came to the Vatican, and said he\nwas come to own himself the author of the pasquinade. As such he was\nshown in to the Pope.\n\n'\"So you are the author of this pasquinade, are you, good man?\"\n\n'\"Yes, Your Holiness, I wrote it,\" answered the fellow.\n\n'\"You are quite sure you wrote it?\"\n\n'\"Oh, yes, Your Holiness, quite sure.\"\n\n'\"Take him and give him the five hundred scudi,\" said the Pope.\n\n'An acute Monsignore, who felt convinced the man could not be the\nauthor of the clever satire, could not refrain from interposing\nofficially when he found the Pope really seemed to be taken in.\n\n'\"They have their orders,\" said the Pope, who was no less discerning\nthan he.\n\n'A chamberlain took the man into a room where five hundred scudi lay\ncounted on the table, and at the same time put on a pair of handcuffs.\n\n'\"Halloa now! What is this? It was announced that the man who owned\nhimself the author of the Pasquinade should have his life free and\nfive hundred scudi.\"\n\n'\"All right; no one is going to touch your life, and there are\nthe five hundred scudi. But you couldn't imagine that the man who\nwrote that satire would be allowed to go free about Rome. That was\nself-evident--there was no need to say it.\"\n\n'\"Oh, but I never wrote a word of it, upon my honour,\" exclaimed\nthe countryman.\n\n'\"I thought not,\" said the Pope, who had come in to amuse himself\nwith the fellow's confusion. \"Now go, and another time don't pretend\nto any worse sins than your own.\"'\n\n\n\n[The 'Pasquino' statue was not only the receptacle of the invectives of\nthe vulgar, it often served also to mark the triumphs of the great. The\nfirst time it was put to this use was in 1571, on occasion of the\ntriumph of M. A. Colonna, when the parts wanting were restored, and it\nwas clad in shining armour. On various occasions, as a new pope went\nin procession from the Vatican to perform the ceremony called 'taking\npossession' of St. John Lateran, it was similarly risanato del suo\nstroppio ordinario (healed of the usual lameness of its members), and\nmade to bear a sword, a balance, a cornucopia, and other emblematical\ndevices, which are given at great length by Cancellieri.\n\nThe opinions of Winkelman, and others, concerning the great artistic\nmerits both of this statue and that called 'Marforio,' do not belong\nto our present aspect of it. Sprenger, 'Roma nuova,' says that besides\nthese two there was another statue which used to take part in this\nsatirical converse, namely, that of the Water-seller, with his barrel\n(commemorative of a well-known, though humble character), opposite\nthe Church of S. Marcello, in the Corso, which the present rulers,\nignorant of Roman traditions, removed. The Romans, however, clamoured\nagainst its destruction, and it is now replaced round the corner,\nup the Via Lata.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nC\u00c8CING\u00d9LO.\n\n\n'There was one who would have done much better for you than Pasquino;\nthat was C\u00e8cing\u00f9lo, [295] at least that's the nickname people gave\nhim. There was no end to the number of stories he could tell.\n\n'In days gone by, [296] he used to sit in Piazza Navona of an evening\nwhen people had left work and had time to listen, and he would pour\nthem out by the hour. Now and then he stopped, and went round with\nhis hat, and there were few who did not spare him a bajocco.'\n\n'Did you ever hear him yourself?'\n\n'No; it was before my time, but my father has heard him many's\nthe time, and many of the stories I have told you are the tales of\nC\u00e8cing\u00f9lo. How often I have said to him, \"Tell me one of C\u00e8cing\u00f9lo's\ntales, papa!\"' [297]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOOING OF CASSANDRO. [298]\n\n\n'Did you ever hear of Sor Cassandro?'\n\n'No, never.'\n\n'Do you know where Pan\u00ecco is?'\n\n'I know the Via di Pan\u00ecco [299] which leads down to Ponte S. Angelo.'\n\n'Very well; at the end of Pan\u00ecco [300] there is a frying-shop,\n[301] which, many years ago, was kept by an old man with a comely\ndaughter. Both were well known all over the Rione.\n\n'One day there came an old gentleman, with a wig and tights, and a\ncomical old-fashioned dress altogether, and said to the shopkeeper--\n\n'\"I've observed that daughter of yours many days as I have passed by,\nand should like to make her my wife.\"\n\n'\"It's a great honour for me, Sor Cassandro, that you should talk\nof such a thing,\" answered the old man; and he said \"Sor Cassandro\"\nlike that because everybody knew old Sor Cassandro with his wig,\nand his gold-knobbed stick, and his tights, and his old-fashioned\ngait. \"But,\" he added, as a knowing way of getting out of it,\n\"you see it wouldn't do for a friggitora to marry a gentleman;\na friggitora must marry a friggitore.\"\n\n'\"I don't know that that need be a bar,\" replied Sor Cassandro.\n\n'\"You don't understand me, Sor Cassandro,\" pursued the man.\n\n'\"Yes, I understand perfectly,\" answered the other. \"You mean that\nif she must marry a friggitore, I must become a friggitore.\"\n\n'\"You a friggitore, Sor Cassandro! That would never do. How could\nyou so demean yourself?\"\n\n'\"Love makes all sweet,\" responded Sor Cassandro. \"You've only to\nshow me what to do and I'll do it as well as anyone.\"\n\n'The friggitore was something of a wag, and the idea of the prim little\nSor Cassandro turned into a journeyman friggitore tickled his fancy,\nand he let him follow his bent.\n\n'The next morning Sor Cassandro was at Pan\u00ecco as soon as the shop\nwas open. They gave him a white jacket and a large white apron,\nand put a white cap on his head, with a carnation stuck in it. And\nthe whole neighbourhood gathered round the shop to see Sor Cassandro\nturned into a friggitore. The work of the shop was increased tenfold,\nand it was well there was an extra hand to help at it.\n\n'Sor Cassandro was very patient, and adapted himself to his work\nsurprisingly well, and though the master fryer took a pleasure in\nordering him about, he submitted to all with good grace, and not\nonly did he make him do the frying and serving out to perfection,\nbut he even taught him to clip his words and leave off using any\nexpression that seemed inappropriate to his new station. [302]\n\n'There was no denying that Sor Cassandro had become a perfect\nfriggitore, and no exception could be taken to him on that score. As\nsoon as he felt himself perfect he did not fail to renew his suit.\n\n'The father was puzzled what objection to make next. He knew, however,\nthat Sor Cassandro was very miserly, so he said, \"You've made yourself\na friggitore to please me, now you must do something to please the\ngirl. Suppose you bring her some trinkets, if you can spare the price\nof them.\"\n\n'\"Oh, anything for love!\" answered Sor Cassandro; and the next day\nhe brought a pair of earrings.\n\n'\"How did she like my earrings?\" he whispered next night to her father.\n\n'\"Oh, pretty well!\" replied the father. \"You might try something more\nin that style.\"\n\n'The next day he brought her a necklace, the next day a shawl, and\nafter that he brought fifty scudi to buy clothes such as a girl should\nhave when she's going to be married.\n\n'After all this he asked for the girl herself.\n\n'\"You must take her,\" said the father, and Sor Cassandro went to take\nher. But she was a sprightly, impulsive girl, and the moment he came\nnear her she screamed out--\n\n'\"Get away, horrid old man!\" [303] and wouldn't let him approach her.\n\n'\"Leave her alone to-night, and try to-morrow. I'll try to bring her\nround in the meantime.\"\n\n'Sor Cassandro came next day; but the girl was more violent than ever,\nand would say nothing but \"Get away, horrid old man!\"\n\n'Finding this went on day after day without amendment, Sor Cassandro\nindignantly asked for his presents back.\n\n'\"You shall have them!\" cried the girl, and the clothes she tore up\nto rags, and the trinkets she broke to atoms and threw them all at him.\n\n'But for the rest of his life, wherever he went, the boys cried after\nhim, \"Sor Cassandro, la friggitora! Sor Cassandro, la friggitora!\"'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nI COCORNI.\n\n\nThis story of Sor Cassandro led to others of the same nature, but\nwithout sufficient interest in the detail to put in print, though they\nseemed to illustrate the fact that an imaginative people will rapidly\nturn the most ordinary circumstances into a myth. For instance, one\nconcerned a family named Cocorni, who seem to have been nothing more\nthan successful grocers, the Twinings of Rome, and here is a specimen\nof the language used about them:--'When his daughter was old enough\nto marry, Cocorni would hear of no proposal for her. \"No,\" said he;\n\"no one marries my daughter but he who comes in a carriage and four\nto fetch her.\" And it really did happen that one came in a carriage\nand four and took her away;' as if it were such a great matter that\nit implied something supernatural.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEAUTIFUL ENGLISHWOMAN.\n\n\nThere was a beautiful Englishwoman here once, beautiful and rich\nas the sun. [304] Heads without number were turned by her: but she\nwould have nothing to say to anyone who wanted to marry her. Some\ndefect she found in all. She was very accomplished, as well as rich\nand beautiful, and she drew a picture, and said 'When one comes who\nis like this I will marry him; but no one else.' Some time after a\nfriend came to her, and said:\n\n'There is So-and-so, he is exactly like the portrait you have drawn,\nand is dying to see you.'\n\n'Is he really like it?' she inquired.\n\n'To me he seems exactly like it; and I don't see he has any defect\nat all, except that he has one tooth a little green.'\n\n'Then I won't have anything to say to him.'\n\n'But, if he is exactly like the portrait you have drawn?'\n\n'He can't be, or he wouldn't have any defect.'\n\n'But he is exactly like it, and so you must see him; if it's only\nfor curiosity.'\n\n'Well, for curiosity, then, I'll see him; but don't let him build\nany hopes upon it.'\n\nThe friend arranged that they should meet at a ball, and the one was\nas well pleased as the other; but not wishing to seem to yield too\nsoon, she said:\n\n'Do you know, I don't like that green tooth you've got.'\n\nAnd he, not to appear too easy either, answered:\n\n'And, do you know, I don't like that patch [305] you have on your\nface.'\n\nThe next time they met, neither he had a green tooth, nor had she a\npatch; for, you know, a patch can be put on and taken off at pleasure,\nand this happened a long long while ago, in the days when they wore\nsuch things.\n\nShe then said:\n\n'If you've put in a false tooth I'll have nothing to say to you.'\n\n'No,' answered he; 'you have taken off your patch; and I've taken\noff my green tooth.'\n\n'How could you do that?' she asked.\n\n'Oh! it was only a leaf I put on to see if you were really as\nparticular as you seemed to be.'\n\nAs they were desperately in love with each other, the next thing\nwas to arrange the marriage secretly. His father had a great title,\nand would never have consented to his marrying her, because she had\nnone. But she had money enough for both; so they contrived a secret\nmarriage. And then they bought a villa some way off, and lived there.\n\nFor thirteen years they lived devoted to each other, and full of\nhappiness; and two children were born to them, a boy and a girl. It\nwas only after thirteen years that the father discovered where the\nson was, and when he did, he sent for an assassin, [306] and giving\nhim plenty of money, told him to go and by some device or other to\nbring him to him and get through the affair. The assassin took a\ncarriage and dressed like a man of some importance, and said that\nsome chief man or other in the Government had sent for him to speak\nto him. The husband suspected nothing, and went with him. As it was\nnight he could not see which way they drove, and thus he delivered\nhis son to his father, who kept him shut up in his palace.\n\nThe assassin went back to the villa, and by giving each of the servants\nfifty scudi apiece, got access to the wife, and murdered her, and\nthen took the children to the grandfather's palace.\n\n'Papa, that man killed mama,' said the little boy, as soon as he saw\nhis father.\n\nThe husband seized the man, and made him confess it.\n\n'Then now you must kill him who hired you to do it,' he exclaimed. 'As\nyou have done the one, you must do the other. He who ordered my wife\nto be killed is no father to me.'\n\nSo the assassin went in and killed the father, but when he came out\nthe husband was ready for him, and he said:\n\n'Now your turn has come,' and he shot him dead.\n\n\n\n[I have not had the opportunity of sifting this story, but it\nmanifestly contains the usual popular exaggerations.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENGLISHMAN.\n\n\n[That a rich Englishman should fall in love with a beautiful but poor\nRoman girl, and marry her, is no impossible incident, and may have\nhappened more than once; but it is very curious to watch how it has\npassed into the mythology of the people.\n\nThe idea of a 'Gran Signore' coming on a visit from a land where\nall are rich is the first fantastic element of the tradition. The\nidea that all English people are rich is very common among the Roman\nlower classes, and is not an unnatural fancy for people to take up who\nhave seen no specimens of the creature but such as are rich. There is\none old woman whom I have never been able to disabuse of the idea. I\nshall never forget the blank astonishment with which she repeated my\nwords the first time I broke it to her that there were poor people\nin England, and she has never thoroughly grasped it.\n\n'Io pensava che in Inghilterra tutti erano ricchi--tutti ricchi--'\n(I thought everyone--everyone in England was rich) she always says,\nas if in spite of me she thought so still.\n\nThat such an one should be won by the charms of a beautiful Roman girl,\nand should carry her off to that unknown land bright with gold but\ndevoid of sun, and that in the end the fogs and the Protestantism\nshould prove unendurable to the child of the South, are not bad\nmaterials for a fairy story.\n\nI have met with such stories several times.\n\nOne old woman assured me, that when she was a child her father had\nlet an apartment to the very man, and that he took the room for\na month, and though he spontaneously offered ten times as high a\nprice as the owner could ever have asked, he never slept there. He\nhad secretly married a Roman girl who was imprisoned for breaking the\nlaw by marrying a Protestant, and he opened her prison doors with his\n'wand,' that is, he bribed the jailer to admit him to pass all his\ntime in prison with her; ultimately he carried her off to England,\nbut she soon died there.\n\nAnother pointed out to me a shop where in former days had been a\nbutcher, whose daughter had charmed a rich Englishman, who carried\nher off to his own country, and married her there. But this was a\nvery tetra (sad, gloomy) story, for after many years she came back\nlooking like the ghost of herself. She had gone away a blooming girl,\nthe pride and the admiration of the whole neighbourhood; she came\nback prematurely grey, hollow-eyed, and thin as a skeleton.\n\nShe said it was the climate had disagreed with her, and further than\nthat she would say nothing. But who knows what she may not have had\nto go through!\n\nBresciani has made the same tradition the groundwork of one of his\nmost interesting romances.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MARRIAGE OF SIGNOR CAJUSSE. [307]\n\n\nThere was a rich farmer [308] who had one only daughter, and she was\nto be his heiress. She fell in love with a count who had no money--at\nleast only ten scudi a month. When he went to the farmer to ask her\nin marriage he would not hear of the alliance, and sent him away.\n\nBut the girl and he were bent on the marriage, and this is how they\nbrought it about. The girl had a thousand scudi of her own; half\nof this she gave to him, and said: 'Go over a certain tract of the\nCampagna and visit all the peasants about, and give five piastres to\none and ten to another according to their degree, that they may say\nwhen they are asked that they all belong to Signor Cajusse. Then take\npapa round to hear what they say, and he will think you are a great\nproprietor, and will let us marry.'\n\nSignor Cajusse, for such was his name, took the money and did as\nshe told him, and then hired a carriage and came to her father, and\nsaid: 'You are quite mistaken in thinking I'm too poor to marry your\ndaughter; come and take a drive with me, and I will show you what a\ngreat man I am.'\n\nSo the farmer got into his carriage, and he drove him round to all\nthe peasants he had bribed. First they stopped at a farm. [309]\n\n'Good morning, Signor Cajusse,' said the tenant, who had been duly\nprimed, bowing down to the ground; and then he began to tell him\nabout his crops, as if he had been really proprietor.\n\nAfter this he proposed to walk a little way, and all the labourers left\ntheir work and flocked after him, crying, 'Good day, Signor Cajusse;\nhealth to you and long life, and may God prosper you!' and they tried\nto kiss his hand.\n\nFurther along they came to a villa where Cajusse had ascertained that\nthe real proprietor would not come that day. Here he went straight\nup to the casino, where the servant in charge, who had been also duly\nbribed, received him with all the honours due to a master.\n\n'Welcome, Signor Cajusse,' he said, and opened the doors and shutters\nand set the chairs.\n\n'Bring a little of that fine eight-year-old wine,' ordered Cajusse; 'we\nhave brought a packet of biscuits, and will have some luncheon.' [310]\n\n'Very good, Signor Cajusse,' replied the servant respectfully,\nand shortly after brought in a bottle of wine handed to him for the\npurpose by Cajusse the day before. When they had drunk they took a\nstroll round the place, and wherever they turned the labourers all\nhad a greeting and a blessing for Signor Cajusse.\n\nWhen the merchant saw all this he hardly knew how to forgive himself\nfor having run the risk of losing such a son-in-law. He was all smiles\nand civility as they drove home, and the next day was as anxious to\nhurry on the match as he had been before to put it off. As all were\nequally in a hurry to have it, of course it was not long before it was\ncelebrated. With the girl's remaining five hundred scudi a handsome\napartment was hired to satisfy appearances before the parents, and\nfor a few days they lived on what was left over.\n\nThey sat counting their last two or three scudi. 'What is to be done\nnow?' said Cajusse; 'that will soon be spent, and then how are we\nto live?'\n\n'I'll set it right,' answered the bride. 'Now we're married that's\nall that signifies. Now it's done they can't help it.'\n\nSo she went to her mother and told her all, and the good woman,\nknowing the thing could not be altered, talked over the father; and\nhe gave them something to live upon and found a place for Cajusse,\nand they were very happy.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DAUGHTER OF COUNT LATTANZIO. [311]\n\n\nCount Lattanzio had a daughter who was in love with a lawyer, but the\ncount was not at all inclined to let her marry beneath her station,\nand he took all the pains imaginable to prevent them from meeting;\nso much so that he scarcely left her out of his sight. One day he was\nobliged to go to his vineyard outside the gates, and before he left\nhe gave strict injunctions to his servant to let no one in till he\ncame back at 21 o'clock. [312]\n\nIt was an hour before 21 o'clock, and there was a knock at the door.\n\n'Is the Count Lattanzio in?'\n\n'No, he won't be in just yet.'\n\n'Ah, I know, he won't be in till 21 o'clock; he said I was to wait. I'm\ncome to measure him for a pair of new boots. [313]\n\n'If he told you to wait I suppose you must,' said the servant;\n'otherwise he had told me not to let anyone in.' And as he showed\nhim in he thought he was a rather gentlemanly bootmaker.\n\nSoon after there was another knock.\n\n'Is the Count Lattanzio in?'\n\n'No, he won't be in for some time yet.'\n\n'Ah, never mind; he said I was to wait if he hadn't come in. I'm the\ntailor, come to measure him for a new suit.'\n\n'If he said you were to wait I suppose you must,' answered the servant;\n'but it's very odd he should have told you so, as he particularly\ntold me to let no one in.' However, he showed him in also. Directly\nafter there came another knock.\n\n'Is the Count Lattanzio at home?'\n\n'No, he won't be in for some time yet.'\n\n'Never mind; I'm the lawyer engaged in his cause before the courts. He\nsaid I was to wait if he wasn't in.'\n\nBut the servant began to get alarmed at having to disobey orders so\nmany times, and he thought he would make a stand.\n\n'I'm very sorry,' he said, 'but master said I wasn't to show anyone\nin.'\n\n'What! when I've come here with my two clerks, on particular business\nof the greatest importance to your master, do you suppose I'm going\naway again like that, fellow?'\n\nThe servant was so amazed by his imperative manner that he let him\nin, too.\n\nTwenty-one o'clock came at last, and with it Count Lattanzio. Having\ngiven orders that no one should be let in, of course he expected to\nfind no one. What was his astonishment, therefore, when, as he opened\nthe drawing-room door, a loud cry of 'Long live Count Lattanzio!' [314]\nuttered by several voices, met his ear.\n\nThe shoemaker was the bridegroom, the tailor the best man, the lawyer\nand his two clerks were the notary and his witnesses. The marriage\narticles had been duly drawn up and signed, and as the parties were\nof age there was no rescinding the contract.\n\nCount Lattanzio sent away the servant for not attending to orders;\nbut that made no difference--the deed was done.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBELLACUCCIA.\n\n\nThere was once a pleader [315] who sat writing in his room all day\nwhenever he was not in court.\n\nOne day as he so sat there came in at the window a large monkey, and\nbegan whisking about the room. The lawyer, pleased with the antics\nof the monkey, called it scimmia bellacuccia, [316] and caressed and\nfed it. By-and-by he had to go out on his business, and though he was\nin some fear of the pranks the monkey might be up to in his absence,\nhe had taken such a fancy to it that he did not like to send it away,\nand at last left it alone in his apartment.\n\nWhen he came home, instead of the monkey having been at any mischievous\npranks, the whole suite of rooms was put in beautiful order, and\nout of very scanty materials in the cupboard an excellent dinner was\ncooked and laid ready.\n\n'Scimmia bellacuccia! is this your doing!' said the lawyer, and the\nmonkey nodded assent.\n\n'Then you are a precious monkey, indeed,' he replied, and he called\nit to him and fed it, and gave it part of the dinner.\n\nThe next day the monkey did the work of the house, and the lawyer\nsent away his servant because he had no further need for one, the\nmonkey did all much better and in a more intelligent way.\n\nAll went well for a time, when one day the lawyer had occasion to\nvisit a friar he knew at St. Nicol\u00f2 da Tolentino, for in those days\nthere were friars [317] there instead of nuns as now. He did not\nfail to tell him of the treasure he had found in his bellacuccia,\nas he called his monkey.\n\n'Don't let yourself be deceived, friend!' exclaimed the friar. 'This\nis no monkey; it is not in the nature of a monkey to do thus.'\n\n'Come and see it yourself,' said the lawyer. 'You will find I have\nover-stated nothing of what it can do and does every day.'\n\nSome days after this the friar came, having taken care to provide\nhimself with his stole and a stoup of holy water. Directly he came\ninto the lawyer's apartment he put on his stole and sprinkled the\nholy water.\n\nThe monkey no sooner saw the shadow of his habit than it took to\nflight, and, after scrambling all round the room to get away from\nthe sight of him, finally hid itself under the bed.\n\n'You see!' said the friar to the lawyer.\n\nBut the lawyer cried, 'Here bellacuccia; come here!' and as the monkey\nwas by habit very docile and obedient, when he had said 'bellacuccia'\na great many times, it at last forced itself to come to him, but\nstealthily and warily, showing great fear of the monk.\n\nWhen it had got quite close to the lawyer, and he was holding it,\nthe friar once more put on his stole, sprinkled it with holy water\nand exorcised it.\n\nInstantly bellacuccia burst away from the lawyer, and, clambering up\nto the window, broke away through the upper panes and disappeared,\nleaving a smoke and a smell of brimstone behind. But it was really a\nman who had been put under a spell by evil arts, [318] and when thus\nreleased by the monk's exorcism he went and became a monk, I forget\nin what order, but I know it was one of those who dress in white.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SATYR.\n\n\n1\n\nThere was once a great king who had one only little daughter, and\nthis daughter was always entreating him to take her out hunting.\n\n'It is not proper for little girls to go out hunting,' he used to\nsay; but it was no use. She went on begging all the same, and at\nlast her importunity gained the day, and he took her with him. But\nin the forest she got separated from him and lost herself, and he,\nfull of the ardour of the chase, forgot the care of her, and, when\nhe came to think of her, she could no more be found.\n\nShe wandered about the forest crying for her father, but her father\ncame not; and instead of her father a selvaggio [319] found her,\nand fell in love with her, and took her to his den and married her,\nand she had two children.\n\nWhen ten years had passed, and there were no tidings of her, the queen,\nher mother, died of a broken heart. [320]\n\nBut the selvaggio loved her dearly, and did everything in his power\nto give her pleasure. When he found she could not eat the raw game\nwhich he brought her, he would go into the towns and steal cooked food\nand bring it to her, and when he could not get that he would go ever\nso far to find fruits and roots. Everything, he did to please her,\nbut it was no use, she could not love him.\n\nAt last, however, after so many years were passed, he thought she was\nat least used to the way of life with him, and he no longer watched her\nso closely. One day when he was gone to a long distance she wandered\non to a cliff that overhung the sea, and looked till she saw a ship,\nthen she called to it and made signs to it to come and pick her up.\n\nThe captain took compassion on her distress, and made for the land,\nand took her on board and wrapped her in a cloak, [321] and she told\nhim who she was and he promised to take her home. He gave her a white\nkerchief to put on her head and another to hold in her hand.\n\nThey had not got far out to sea when the selvaggio found out what had\nhappened, and came running to the same cliff where she had stood, and\nmade signs entreating her to come back; but she shook the handkerchief\nshe held in token of refusal.\n\nThen what did he do? He ran back to the den and fetched one of the\nchildren and held it up, appealing to her mother's instincts; but she\nalways continued waving the handkerchief in token of refusal. When\nhe saw that this prevailed not, he ran back to the den and fetched\nthe other child, and held them both up to plead with her to come\nback. But she always, and always, went on waving the handkerchief\nin token of refusal. Then what did he do? He took out his knife and\nplunged it into the one child, as signifying that if she did not\ncome back he would kill the other also. But even for that she was not\nmoved, but went on waving the handkerchief in token of refusal. Then\nwith his knife he killed the other child, for he had no hope left;\nbut she could not go back to that life with him, and went on waving\nthe handkerchief in token of refusal.\n\nThen with his claw [322] he tore open his breast, and tore out his\nheart, and died for the love he bore her.\n\nBut the sailors took her home, and they were richly rewarded, and\nthere was great rejoicing.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nTHE SATYRS.\n\n\nThey say there was a queen whose husband was dead, and she had one\nonly son. Imagine how devoted she was to him, her only child, soon\nto be the king of vast dominions.\n\nOne day a lady, unknown to her, came and asked if she might put a\nhorse of hers in her stable.\n\n'No,' said the queen; 'I cannot have the horses of anyone else mixed\nup there.'\n\nThe lady turned to go; but as she went, she met the prince coming in\nfrom hunting, surrounded by all his suite. The lady was a fairy, and\nin her indignation at the queen's refusal of her demand, she turned\nthe prince and all those following him into salvatichi. [323]\n\nImagine the horror and the cries of the queen when she saw what had\nhappened. What was to be done? Much as she adored her son, it was\nimpossible to keep him in the palace now.\n\n'You must put him in the stables,' said the cruel fairy, who had waited\nto enjoy her revenge, and now preserved her coolness amid the confusion\nand excitement of those around. 'You must put him in the stables,\nand all the others too now. Your stables will be full enough, indeed!'\n\nBut the queen's grief was too deep to waste itself in a strife of\nwords with her.\n\n'There is only one mode of redemption for him. If he can find a maiden\nto consent to marry him as he is, without knowing he is a prince,\nI will come and remove the spell.'\n\nThe queen had seen the proof of her relentless spirit, and knew it\nwould be vain if she should humble herself to entreat her to alter\nher sentence. So she said nothing, and the fairy went away.\n\nTo find a maiden who should consent to marry such a monster as\nher son now was, and who should yet be meet to be his wife when\nrestored to his due estate, was a hopeless task indeed; but what\nwill not a mother's love attempt? With endless fatigue and continued\nmortifications she made the fruitless effort in every quarter. When\nthis had utterly failed, she condescended to maidens of lower estate,\nand tried daughters of merchants and tradesmen, and even peasants,\nto whom the elevation of rank might in some measure compensate the\nill-conditioned union. But it was all in vain, there were only fresh\nrepulses and deeper mortifications.\n\nIt happened that adjoining the paddock in which the stables lay, were\nthe grounds of a duke. One day the duke's daughter was walking in\nher garden, and the prince immediately turned his head and saw her,\nand began beckoning to her, for he had the head and arms and body of\na man from the waist upwards still, and the rest of him was like the\nhindquarters of a goat, only he stood upright, like a man. The duke's\ndaughter was perplexed, however, at the sight of such a monster,\nand ran away.\n\nNevertheless the next day she came back, and the prince beckoned to\nher again, and all his suite, who were satyrs like himself, beckoned\nto her too, till at last she came near.\n\n'Do you wish me well?' [324] he asked.\n\n'No!' exclaimed the duke's daughter with disgust, because she could\nnot say that she loved him: and she ran away. Every day it was the\nsame thing; and when she told her mother what had happened, she bid\nher keep away, and beware of going near such a monster.\n\nFor a whole month, therefore, she kept away; but curiosity overcame\nher at last, and she went down into the garden as before. All the\nsatyrs began beckoning as usual, and she went up to them.\n\n'If you will say you wish me well, you will give me endless happiness,'\nsaid the prince; 'and if not, I will dash my head against this wall,\nand put an end to my life.'\n\nHe was so much in earnest, and the tears were in his eyes, and his\nsighs and entreaties were so moving, that she almost forgot his\nmonstrous form. The prince observed that her face betrayed signs of\ninterest, and he redoubled his sighs, and all the other satyrs made\nsigns and gesticulations to her that she should consent.\n\n'Say you wish me well! Let me just have the happiness of once hearing\nyou say so!' continued the prince.\n\n'Poor fellow, he seems so sad, and so anxious I should just say it\nonce. There can't be much harm in saying just once that I wish him\nwell,' said the maiden to herself.\n\n'Say, say just once, that you wish me well!' persisted the prince;\nand the maiden in her compassion said:\n\n'Yes! I wish you well.'\n\nImmediately the fairy appeared and took the spell from off the prince,\nand from off all his suite.\n\nWhen the duke's daughter found to what a fine handsome prince she\nwas promised, she saw her compassion was well rewarded.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAMADEA.\n\n\nAmadea was a beautiful queen who fell in love with a king not of her\nown country; he loved her too, and married her, and took her home. But\nthe king her father, and the prince her brother, were very wroth that\nshe should go away with the stranger.\n\nWhen Amadea heard that her brother was preparing to prevent her\ngoing away with her husband, she turned upon him and killed him,\nand then cut his body in pieces, and threw the mangled limbs in her\nfather's way, to show him what he might expect if he followed after\nher too. And when she found that he was not deterred by the sight,\nshe turned and killed him in like manner.\n\nOnly fancy what a woman she must have been!\n\nWhen her husband, who had liked her before, saw this, he began to be\nafraid of her; nevertheless, they lived for some time happily together,\nand had two beautiful children. But after that again, her husband's\nlove cooled towards her when he thought of the horrors she had\ncommitted, and he took their two children and went away and left her.\n\nAfter a time Amadea not only found out where he was, but found out that\nshe had a rival. Then she made her way to the place, and demanded to\nsee her rival; but knowing of what she was capable, this her husband\nwould by no means allow. Then she prepared a most beautiful necklace\nof pearls, and sent it as a present to her rival. But she had poisoned\nit by her arts, for she was a sort of witch, and when her rival put\nit on she died.\n\nMeantime she had sent a message to her husband, saying, 'If I may\nnot come to your court, at least let me see my children for one hour,\nand then I will go away, and molest you no more for ever.'\n\n'That I will grant you,' was his answer; and the children were brought\nto her.\n\nWhen she saw her children, she wept, and embraced them, and wept again,\nand said:\n\n'Now, my children, I must kill you.'\n\n'And why must you kill us?' asked the little boy.\n\n'Because of the too great love I bear you,' she replied, and drew\nout her dagger.\n\nAt that instant her husband came into the room, and she stabbed the\nchildren before his eyes. After that she stabbed herself, and he died\nof grief.\n\n\n\n[It was about the time that Prince Amadeo gave up his attempt to hold\nthe throne of Spain that I was visiting a poor person who had before\ngiven me some of the stories of this collection. The abdication of\nPrince Amadeo being the subject of the hour, we, of course, talked\nabout that; when she said: 'Ah, you who are so fond of favola, do you\nknow the favola of Queen Amadea, for one name brings up another?' I\ntold her I did not; for I expected she meant some legend of the House\nof Savoy; she then told me the story of Medeia in the text. It is\nvery rare, however, to meet remnants of classical traditions in such\ndirect form.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING OF PORTUGAL.\n\n\nThey say that once there was a king of Portugal who had a beautiful\ndaughter, and there came a prince to marry her. When the prince saw\nhow old and feeble the king was, he seized him, and shut him up in\nprison, and ordered him to be fed on only bread and water, that he\nmight die without killing him. 'And then,' he said, 'I shall take\nthe government.'\n\nThen he would send and ask, 'How does he look today? Does he grow\nlean and pale? Does he look like to die?'\n\nBut the answer ever was, 'Nay, prince, he looks hale and stout. Every\nday his face is fresher and fatter. Every day he seems stronger\nand firmer.'\n\nThen the prince grew in despair of ever accomplishing his design,\nand he said, 'It cannot be as you say, unless there is treachery,' and\nhe changed the guards, and set a watch upon them; but the same thing\nhappened, and the old king continued to grow stouter and stronger. He\nmade them search the princess, too, when she went to see her father,\nand they assured themselves that she took nothing to him. Then he\nbade them watch her, and they saw that she placed her breast against\nthe prison bars, and fed him with her own milk.\n\nFor it had been thus, that when she learnt what was the design of\nthe prince, she was filled with earnest desire to save her father's\nlife, and prayed so hard that she might have wherewith to support him,\nthat, young girl as she was, the means was afforded her, and thus by\nher devotion she preserved him in life and health.\n\nWhen the prince heard what she did, he was seized with compunction,\nand sent and released the king, and restored him to his throne, and\nwent his way in shame. But the king sent for him back, and forgave\nhim: he gave him his daughter also, and when he died he left him the\nsuccession to the kingdom.\n\n\n\n['I have no \"favole\" for you to-day,' was one day my greeting from\nan old lady who had given me many, 'but there has just come to mind a\n\"bell' fatto\" (a grand deed), which is better than a \"favola\" for it\nis historic truth.' Then she told me the story in the text, and I was\nsurprised to find she was positive it was a king of Portugal and that\nshe never seemed to have heard of the 'Carit\u00e0 Romana.' It is odd that\nwhile so many legends get localised any should get dis-localised.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCIARPE.\n\n\nTHE TWO FRIARS. [325]\n\n\nTwo friars once went out on a journey, that is to say, a friar and a\nlay brother. [326] One day of their journey, when they were far from\ntheir convent, the friar said to the lay brother: 'We fare poorly\nenough all the days of our life in our convent, let us, for one day\nof our lives, taste the good things of this world which others enjoy\nevery day.'\n\n'You know better than I, who am only a poor simple lay brother,'\nanswered the other, 'whether such a thing may be done. I don't mean\nto say I should not like to have a jolly good dinner for once; but\nthere is the uneasiness of conscience to spoil the feast, and the\npenance afterwards. I think we had better leave it alone.'\n\nThey journeyed on, therefore, and said no more about it that day,\nbut the next, when they were very hungry after a long walk through\nthe cold mountain air, the scent of the viands preparing in the inn\nas they drew near brought the subject of yesterday's conversation to\ntheir minds again, and the friar said to the lay brother: 'You know\neven our rule says that when we are journeying we cannot live as\nwe do in our convent; we must eat and drink whatever we find in the\nplaces to which we are sent; moreover, some relaxation is allowed for\nthe restoration of the body under the fatigues of the journey. Now,\nif we come, as it has often happened to us, to a poor little mountain\nvillage, where scarcely a wholesome crust of bread is to be found,\nto be washed down with a glass of sour wine, we have to take it for\nall our dinner, and eat it with thanksgiving. Therefore why, now,\nwhen we come to a place where the fare is less scanty, even as by the\nodours we perceive is the case here, should we not also take what is\nfound ready, and eat it with thanksgiving?'\n\n'What you say seems right and just enough,' said the lay brother, not\nat all sorry to have his scruples so speciously explained away. 'But\nthere is one thing you have not thought of. It is all very well to\nsay we will eat and drink this and that, but how are we poor friars,\nwho possess nothing, to command the delicacies which are smoking\nround the fire, and which have to be paid for by well-stored purses?'\n\n'Oh! that is not the difficulty,' replied the friar; 'leave that\nto me.'\n\nBy this time they had reached the threshold of the inn, and, taking\nhis companion's last feeble resistance for consent, the friar strutted\ninto the eating-room with so bold an air that the lay brother hardly\nknew him for the humble religious he had been accompanying anon.\n\n'Ho! here! John, Peter, Francis, whatever you are called!'\n\n'Francesco, to your service,' replied the host humbly, thinking by\nhis commanding tone he must be some son of a great family.\n\n'Francesco guercino, [327] then,' continued the friar in the same\nhigh-sounding voice, 'take away this foul table-cloth, and bring the\ncleanest and finest in your house; remove these cloudy glasses and\nbring out the bright ones you have there locked up in the glass case,\nand replace these bone spoons and forks [328] with the silver ones\nout of your strong box.'\n\n'Your Excellency is served!' [329] said the host, who, as well as his\nwife and son, had bustled so fast to do what he was so peremptorily\nordered that all was done as soon as spoken.\n\n'Now then Francesco guercino, what have you got to put before a hungry\ngentleman in this poor little place of yours?'\n\n'Excellenza! when you have tasted the cooking of my poor little\nhouse,' said the host, 'you will not, I am sure, be displeased;\nall unworthy as it is of your Excellency's palate. For what we have\nready, we have beef for our boiled meat, good brains for our fried,\nthe plumpest poultry for our grilled, and the freshest eggs for our\nomelette; or, if your Excellency prefers it, we have hashed turkey,\nwith crisp watercresses; and as for our soup, [330] there is not an\ninn in the whole province can beat us, I know. And for dessert we\nhave cheese and fruits, and'----\n\n'Well done, Francesco guercino,' said the friar interrupting him. 'You\nknow how to cry your own wares, at all events. Bring us the best of\nwhat you have; it is not for poor friars to complain of what is set\nbefore us.'\n\nThe last sentence gave the host a high idea of the piety of his guest\njust as the hectoring tone he had assumed had convinced him he must\nbe high-born, and in a trice the best of everything in the house was\nmade ready for the table of the friar. All other guests had to wait,\nor go away unserved; the host was intent only on serving the friar.\n\nEvery dish he took to the table himself, and as he did so each time\nthe friar, fixing on him a look of sanctity, exclaimed,--\n\n'Blessed Francesco! Blessed Francesco!' [331]\n\nAt the close of the meal, as he was hovering about the table, nervously\nwiping away a crumb, or polishing a plate, he said, with trembling:\n\n'Excellenza! Permit a poor man to put one question. What is there you\nsee about me that makes you look at me as though you saw happiness in\nstore, and exclaim with so much unction as quite to fill me with joy,\n\"Blessed Francesco!\"?'\n\n'True, something I see wherefore I call thee blessed,' replied the\nfriar; 'but I cannot tell it thee now. To-morrow, perhaps, I may find\nit easier. Impossible now, friend. Now, pray thee, show us our rooms.'\n\nIt needed not to add any injunctions concerning the rooms; of course,\nthe cleanest and the best were appointed by Francesco spontaneously\nfor such honoured guests.\n\n'How do you think we are getting on?' said the friar to the lay\nbrother when they were alone.\n\n'Excellently well so far,' replied the other; 'things have passed my\nlips this night which never have they tasted before, nor ever may\nagain. But the reckoning, the reckoning; that is what puzzles me:\nwhen it comes to paying the bill, what'll you do then?'\n\n'Leave it all to me,' returned the friar; 'I'm quite satisfied with\nthe man we have to deal with. It will all come right, never fear.'\n\nThe next morning the two brothers were astir betimes, but Francesco\nwas on the look-out to serve them.\n\n'Excellenza! you will not leave without breakfast, Excellenza!'\n\n'Yes, Francesco; poor friars must not mind going without breakfast.'\n\n'Never, from my house, Excellenza!' responded Francesco. 'I have the\ntable ready with a bottle of wine freshly drawn from the cellar, eggs\nthat were born [332] since daylight, only waiting your appearance to\nbe boiled, rolls this moment drawn from the oven, and my wife is at\nthe stove preparing a fried dish [333] fit for a king.'\n\n'Too much, too much, Francesco! You spoil us; we are not used to\nsuch things,' said the lay brother as they sat down; but Francesco\nhad flown into the kitchen, and returned with the dish.\n\n'Blessed Francesco!' said the friar as he set it on the table.\n\n'I will not disturb your Excellency now,' said Francesco; 'but, after\nyou have breakfasted, I crave your remembrance of your promise of\nlast night, that you would reveal to me this morning wherefore you\nsay with such enthusiasm \"Blessed Francesco!\"'\n\n'It is not time to speak of it now,' said the friar; 'first we have\nour reckoning to make.'\n\nThe lay brother hid his face in his table-napkin in terror, and seemed\nto be seized with a distressing fit of coughing.\n\n'Oh, don't speak of the reckoning, Excellenza; that is as nothing.'\n\n'Nay,' said the friar; 'that must not be;' and he made a gesture as\nif he would have drawn out a purse, while under the table he had to\npress his feet against those of the lay brother to silence his rising\nremonstrance for his persistence.\n\n'I couldn't think of taking anything from your Excellenza,' persisted\nthe host, putting his hands behind him that no money might be forced\nupon him.\n\nThe more stedfastly he refused the more perseveringly the friar\ncontinued to press the payment, till, with his companion, he had\ngained the threshold of the door.\n\nAs they were passing out, however, the host once more exclaimed,\n'But the explanation your Excellency was to give me of why you said\n\"Blessed Francesco!\"'\n\n'Impossible, friend; I cannot tell it here. Wait till I have gained\nthe height of yonder mound, while you stand at its foot, and I will\ntell it you from thence.'\n\nWith this they parted.\n\nWhen the friar and his companion had reached the height he had pointed\nout, and were at a sufficient distance to be saved the fear of pursuit,\nhe turned to the host, who stood gaping at the bottom, and said:\n\n'Lucky for you, Francesco, that when you come to die you will only have\nthe trouble of shutting one eye, instead of two, like other men.' [334]\n\n\n\n[Such a story at the expense of a single unworthy monk contains no\nimplied taunt at the religious orders, who are deeply honoured in\nRome, and none more than the mendicant Franciscans, most of whom are\nthemselves of the very people. Ever since the invasion of September\n20, 1870, every effort has been used to stir up the people against\nthem, but with little effect. At the last Carneval the most elaborate\ncar was got up with the purpose of ridiculing them, but it met with\nno approval, except from members of the clubs. The narrator of the\nstory was herself not only a devoted member of the Church, but had\na relative in the order of St. Francis, nor did she tell it without\nan edifying exordium on the goodness of the frati in general, though\nthere must be unworthy members of all professions. Faceti\u00e6 of this\nclass are much rarer in Rome than in Spain.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PREFACE OF A FRANCISCAN.\n\n\nA Franciscan friar was travelling on business of his order when he was\novertaken by three brigands, who stole from him his ass, his saddle,\nand his doubloons. Moreover, they told him that if he informed any man\nof what they had done they would certainly come after him again and\ntake his life; for they could only sell the ass and the saddle that\nwere known to be his by representing that he had sold them to them,\notherwise no one would have bought them.\n\nThe friar told no man what had happened to him, for fear of losing\nhis life; yet he knew that if he could only let his parishioners know\nwhat had occurred, they would soon retake for him all that he had lost.\n\nSo he hit on the following expedient: next Sunday, as he was saying\nMass, when he came to the place in the Preface where special additions\ncommemorative of the particular festivals are inserted, after the\nenumeration of the praises of God, he added the words, 'Nevertheless,\nme, Thy poor servant, evil men have robbed of my ass and her saddle,\nand all my doubloons; but to no man have I declared the thing, save\nunto Thee only, Omnipotent Father, who knowest all things, and helpest\nthe poor;' and then he went on, 'et ide\u00f2 cum angelis et archangelis,'\n&c. [335]\n\nThe parishioners were no sooner thus informed of what had occurred,\nthan they went after the brigands and made them give up all they had\ntaken. The next time, therefore, the father was out in the Campagna,\nthe brigands came after him and said:\n\n'Now, we take your life; last time we let you off, saying we would\nspare you if you told no man what we had done; but you cannot keep\nyour own counsel, so you must die like the rest.'\n\nBut the good monk showed them that he had not spoken to man of the\nthing, but had only lamented his loss before God, which every man was\nfree to do. And the brigands, when they heard that, could say nothing,\nand they let him go by uninjured, him and his beast.\n\n\n\n[Such stories are the result of a household familiarity with sacred\nmatters, and are told with genuine fun without the least infusion\nof irreverence. Just as out of the fulness of the heart the mouth\nspeaks, even so we make jokes on whatever subject we are most occupied\nwith. Religious offices are so much a part of the daily life of the\nCatholic poor that it would be impossible to banish the language of\nthem from their simple jokes. I have had numbers of such told me\nwithout the least expression that could be called scoffing in the\nteller; but I forbear to give more than the two or three in the text\nby way of specimens, lest the spirit of them should be misjudged.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LENTEN PREACHER.\n\n\nA friar came to preach the Lenten sermons in a country place. The wife\nof a rich peasant sat under the pulpit, and thought all the time what\na nice-looking man he was, instead of listening to his exhortations\nto penance.\n\nWhen the sermon was over she went home and took out half-a-dozen\nnice fine pocket-handkerchiefs, and sent them to him by her maid,\nwith a very civil note to beg him to come and see her.\n\nAs the maid was going out, the husband met her.\n\n'Where are you going?' said he.\n\nThe maid, who did not at all like her errand, promised if he would\nnot be angry with her, and would not let her mistress know it, she\nwould tell him all.\n\nThe husband promised to hold her harmless, and she gave him the\nhandkerchiefs and the note.\n\n'Come here,' said the husband; and he took her into his room and\nwrote a note as if from the friar, saying he was much obliged by her\npresents, and would like to see the lady very much, but that it was\nimpossible they could meet, so she must not think of it. This note\nthe maid took back to her mistress as if from the friar.\n\nA few days after this the husband gave out that he would have to go to\na fair, and would be away two or three days. Immediately the wife took\na pound of the best snuff and sent it as a present to the friar by the\nsame maid with another note, saying the husband was going away on such\nan evening, and if he then came to see her at an hour after the Ave\nhe would find the door open. This also the maid took to her master;\nthe husband took the snuff and wrote an answer, as if from the friar,\nto say he would keep the appointment. In the evening he said good-bye\nto his wife, and went away. But he went to the butcher and bought a\nstout beef sinew, and at the hour appointed for the friar, he came\nback dressed as a friar, and beat her with the beef sinew till she\nwas half dead. Then he went down in the kitchen and sent the servant\nup to heal her, and went away for three days. When he came back the\nwife was still doubled up, and suffering from the beating.\n\n'What is the matter?' he said, sympathisingly.\n\n'Oh! I fell down the cellar stairs.'\n\n'What do you mean by leaving your mistress to go down to the\ncellar?' he cried out to the servant, with great solicitude. 'How\ncan you allow her to do such things? What's the use of you?'\n\n'Don't scold the servant,' answered the wife; 'it wasn't her fault. I\nshall be all right soon.' And she made as light of her ailment as\nshe could, to keep him from asking her any more questions. But he\nwas discreet enough to say no more.\n\nOnly when she was well again he sent to the friar and asked him to\ncome home to dine with them.\n\n'My wife is subject to odd fancies sometimes,' he said, as they\nwalked home. 'If she should do anything extravagant, don't you mind;\nI shall be there to call her to order.'\n\nThen he told the servant to bring in the soup and the boiled meat\nwithout waiting for orders, but to keep the grill back till he came\nto the kitchen door to call her.\n\nAt the time for the grill, therefore, he got up from table to go and\ncall her, and thus left his wife and the friar alone together. They\nwere no sooner alone than she got up, and calling him a horrid friar,\ngave him a sound drubbing. The husband came back in time to prevent\nmischief, and to make excuses; and finding she was cured of her\naffection, said no more of the affair.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nASS OR PIG. [336]\n\n\nA countryman was going along driving a pig before him. 'Let's have a\nbit of fun with that fellow,' said the brother porter of a monastery\nto the father guardian, [337] as they saw him coming along the\nroad. 'I'll call his pig an ass, and of course he'll say it's a pig;\nthen I shall laugh at him for not knowing better, and he will grow\nangry. Then I'll say, \"Well, will you have the father guardian to\nsettle the dispute? and if he decides I'm right I shall keep the beast\nfor myself.\" Then you come and say it is an ass, and we'll keep it.'\n\nThe father guardian agreed, with a hearty laugh; and as soon as the\ncountryman came up the brother porter did all as he had arranged.\n\nThe countryman was so sure of his case that he willingly submitted\nto the arbitration of the father guardian; but great was his dismay\nwhen the father guardian decided against him, and he had to go home\nwithout his pig.\n\nBut what did the countryman do? He dressed himself up as a poor girl,\nand about nightfall, and a storm coming on, he rang at the bell of\nthe monastery and entreated the charity of shelter for the night.\n\n'Impossible!' said the brother porter; 'we can't have any womenkind\nin here.'\n\n'But the dark, and the storm!' clamoured the pretended girl; 'think\nof that. You can't leave me out here all alone.'\n\n'I'm very sorry,' said the porter, 'but the thing's impossible. I\ncan't do it.'\n\nThe good father guardian, hearing the dispute at that unusual hour,\nput his head out of the window and asked what it was all about.\n\n'It is a difficult case, brother porter,' he said when he had heard the\ngirl's request. 'If we take her in we infringe our rule in one way;\nif we leave her exposed to every kind of peril we sin against its\nspirit in another direction. I only see one way out of it. I can't\nsend her into any of your cells; but I will let her pass the night\nin mine, provided she is content not to undress, and will consent to\nsit up in a chair.'\n\nThis was exactly what the countryman wanted, therefore he gave a\nready assent, and the father guardian took him up into his cell. The\npretended girl sat up in a chair quietly enough through the dark\nof the night, but when morning began to dawn, out came a stick that\nhad been hidden under the petticoats, and whack, whack [338]--a fine\ndrubbing the poor father guardian got, to the tune of--'So you think\nI don't know a pig from an ass, do you?'\n\nWhen he had well bruised him all over, the countryman made the best\nof his way downstairs, and off and away he was before anyone could\ncatch him.\n\nThe next day what did he do? He dressed up like a doctor, and came\nround asking if anyone had any ailments to cure.\n\n'That's just the thing for us,' said the brother porter to himself\nas he saw him come by. 'The father guardian was afraid to let the\ndoctor of the neighbourhood attend him, for fear of the scandal of\nall the story coming out; the strange doctor will just do, as there\nis no need to tell him anything.'\n\nThe countryman in his new disguise, therefore, was taken up to the\nfather guardian's cell.\n\n'There's nothing very much the matter,' he said when he had examined\nthe wounds and bruises; 'it might all be set right in a day by a\ncertain herb,' which he named.\n\nThe herb was a difficult one to find, but as it was so important to\nget the father guardian cured immediately, before any inquiry should\nbe raised as to the cause of his sufferings, the whole community set\nout to wander over the Campagna in search of it.\n\nAs soon as they were a good way off, the pretended doctor took out a\nthick stick which he held concealed under his long robe, and whack,\nwhack--belaboured the poor father guardian more terribly even than\nbefore, to the tune of--'So you think I don't know an ass from a pig,\ndo you?'\n\nHow far soever the brothers were gone, his cries were so piteous\nthat they recalled them, but not till the countryman had made good\nhis escape.\n\n'We have sinned, my brethren,' said the father guardian when they were\nall gathered round him; 'and I have suffered justly for it. We had no\nright to take the man's pig, even for a joke. Let it now, therefore,\nbe restored to him, and in amends let there be given him along with\nit an ass also.'\n\nSo the countryman got his pig back, and a donkey into the bargain.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEVEN CLODHOPPERS. [339]\n\n\nSeven clodhoppers went to confession.\n\n'Father, I stole something,' said the first.\n\n'What was it you stole?' asked the priest.\n\n'Some mistuanza, [340] because I was starving,' replied the country\nbumpkin.\n\nThat the poor fellow, who really looked as if he might have been\nstarving, should have stolen some herbs did not seem such a very\ngrave offence; so with due advice to keep his hands from picking and\nstealing, and a psalm to say for his penance, the priest sent him\nto communion.\n\nThen came the second, and there was the same dialogue. Then the third\nand the fourth, till all the seven had been up.\n\nAt last the priest began to think it was a very odd circumstance that\nsuch a number of full-grown men should all of a sudden have taken\ninto their heads to go stealing salad herbs; and when the seventh\nhad had his say he rejoined,--\n\n'But what do you mean by mistuanza?'\n\n'Oh, any mixture of things,' replied the countryman.\n\n'Nay; that's not the way we use the word,' responded the priest;\n'so tell me what \"things\" you mean.'\n\n'Oh, some cow, some pig, and some fowl.' [341]\n\n'You men of the mistuanza!' shouted the priest in righteous\nindignation, starting out of the confessional; 'Come back! come\nback! you can't go to communion like that.'\n\nThe seven clodhoppers, finding themselves discovered, began to fear\nthe rigour of justice, and decamped as fast as they could.\n\n\n\n[Next to gossiping jokes on subjects kindred to religion are jokes\nabout domestic disputes, the greater blame being generally ascribed\nto the wife.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE BIRD. [342]\n\n\nThere was an old couple who earned a poor living by working hard all\nday in the fields.\n\n'See how hard we work all day,' said the wife; 'and it all comes of\nthe foolish curiosity of Adam and Eve. If it had not been for that\nwe should have been living now in a beautiful garden, with nothing\nto do all day long.'\n\n'Yes,' said the husband; 'if you and I had been there, instead of\nAdam and Eve, all the human race had been in Paradise still.'\n\nThe count, their master, overheard them talking in this way, and\nhe came to them and said: 'How would you like it if I took you up\ninto my palazzo there, to live and gave you servants to wait on you,\nand plenty to eat and drink?'\n\n'Oh, that would be delightful indeed! That would be as good as Paradise\nitself!' answered husband and wife together.\n\n'Well, you may come up there if you think so. Only remember, in\nParadise there was one tree that was not to be touched; so at my table\nthere will be one dish not to be touched. You mustn't mind that,'\nsaid the count.\n\n'Oh, of course not,' replied the old peasant; 'that's just what I say:\nwhen Eve had all the fruits in the garden, what did she want with just\nthat one that was forbidden? And if we, who are used to the scantiest\nvictuals, are supplied with enough to live well, what does it matter\nto us whether there is an extra dish or not on the table?'\n\n'Very well reasoned,' said the count. 'We quite understand each\nother, then?'\n\n'Perfectly,' replied both husband and wife.\n\n'You come to live at my palace, and have everything you can want there,\nso long as you don't open one dish [343] which there will be in the\nmiddle of the table. If you open that you go back to your former way\nof life.'\n\n'We quite understand,' answered the peasants.\n\nThe count went in and called his servant, and told him to give the\npeasants an apartment to themselves, with everything they could want,\nand a sumptuous dinner, only in the middle of the table was to be an\nearthen dish, into which he was to put a little bird alive, so that\nif one lifted the cover the bird would fly out. He was to stay in\nthe room and wait on them, and report to him what happened.\n\nThe old people sat down to dinner, and praised everything they saw,\nso delightful it all seemed.\n\n'Look! that's the dish we're not to touch,' said the wife.\n\n'No; better not look at it,' said the husband.\n\n'Pshaw! there's no danger of wanting to open it, when we have such\na lot of dishes to eat our fill out of,' returned the wife.\n\nSo they set to, and made such a repast as they had never dreamed of\nbefore. By degrees, however, as the novelty of the thing wore off,\nthey grew more and more desirous for something newer and newer\nstill. Though when they at first sat down it had seemed that two\ndishes would be ample to satisfy them, they had now had seven or\neight and they were wishing there might be others coming. There is\nan end to all things human, and no other came; there only remained\nthe earthen dish in the middle of the table.\n\n'We might just lift the lid up a little wee bit,' said the wife.\n\n'No; don't talk about it,' said the husband.\n\nThe wife sat still for five minutes, and then she said: 'If one just\nlifted up one corner of the lid it could scarcely be called opening\nit, you know.'\n\n'Better leave it alone altogether, and not think about it at all,'\nsaid the husband.\n\nThe wife sat still another five minutes, and then she said: 'If\none peeped in just the least in the world it would not be any harm,\nsurely; and I should so like to know what there can possibly be. Now,\nwhat can the count have put in that dish?'\n\n'I'm sure I can't guess in the least,' said the husband; 'and I must\nsay I can't see what it can signify to him if we did look at it.'\n\n'No; that's what I think. And besides, how would he know if we\npeeped? it wouldn't hurt him,' said the wife.\n\n'No; as you say, one could just take a look,' said the husband.\n\nThe wife didn't want more encouragement than that. But when she lifted\none side of the lid the least mite she could see nothing. She opened\nit the least mite more, and the bird flew out. The servant ran and\ntold his master, and the count came down and drove them out, bidding\nthem never complain of Adam and Eve any more.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL WHO TOOK TO HIMSELF A WIFE. [344]\n\n\nListen, and I will tell you what the devil did who took to himself\na wife.\n\nAges and ages ago, in the days when the devil was loose--for now\nhe is chained and can't go about like that any more--the head devil\n[345] called the others, and said, 'Whichever of you proves himself\nthe boldest and cleverest, I will give him his release, and set him\nfree from Inferno.'\n\nSo they all set to work and did all manner of wild and terrible things,\nand the one who pleased the head devil best was set free.\n\nThis devil being set free, went upon earth, and thought he would\nlive like the children of men. So he took a wife, and, of course, he\nchose one who was handsome and fashionable [346], but he didn't think\nabout anything else, and he soon found that she was no housewife,\nwas never satisfied unless she was gadding out somewhere, would not\ntake a word of reproof, and, what was more, she spent all his money.\n\nEvery day there were furious quarrels; it was bad enough while the\nmoney lasted--and he had brought a good provision with him--but when\nthe money came to an end it was much worse; he was ever reproaching\nher with extravagance, and she him with stinginess and deception.\n\nAt last he said to her one day, 'It's no use making a piece of work;\nI'm quite tired of this sort of life; I shall go back to Hell, which\nis a much quieter place than a house where you are. But I don't mind\ndoing you a good turn first. I'll go and possess myself of a certain\nqueen. You dress up like a doctor, and say you will heal her, and all\nyou will have to do will be to pretend to use some ointments [347]\nfor two or three days, on which I will go out of her. Then they will\nbe so delighted with you for healing her that they will give you a lot\nof money, on which you can live for the rest of your days, and I will\ngo back to Hell.' But though he said this, it was only to get rid of\nher. As soon as he had provided her with the price for casting him\nout once, he meant to go and amuse himself on earth in other ways;\nhe had no real intention of going back to Hell. Then he instructed\nher in the means by which she was to find out the queen of whom he\nwas to possess himself, and went his way.\n\nThe wife, by following the direction he gave, soon found him, and,\ndressed as a doctor, effected the cure; that is, she made herself known\nto him in applying the ointments, and he went away as he had agreed.\n\nWhen the king and the court saw what a wonderful cure had been\neffected, they gave the woman a sackfull of scudi, but all the people\nwent on talking of her success.\n\nThe devil meantime had possessed himself of another sovereign, a king\nthis time, and everybody in the kingdom was very desirous to have\nhim cured, and went inquiring everywhere for a remedy. Thus they\nheard of the fame of the last cure by the devil's wife. Then they\nimmediately sent for her and insisted that she should cure this king\ntoo. But she, not sure whether he would go out a second time at her\nbidding, refused as long as she could; but they took her, and said,\n'Unless you cure him we shall kill you!'\n\n'Then,' she said, 'you must shut me up alone with this king, and I\nwill try what I can do.'\n\nSo she was shut up alone with him.\n\n'What! you here again!' said the devil as soon as he perceived\nher. 'No; that won't do this time. I am very comfortable inside this\nold king, and I mean to stay here.'\n\n'But they threaten to kill me if I don't make you go; so what am I\nto do?' answered the wife.\n\n'I can't help that,' he replied; 'you must get out of the scrape the\nbest way you can.'\n\nAt this she got in a passion, and, as she used to do in the days when\nthey were living together, rated him so fiercely that at last he was\nfain to go to escape her scolding.\n\nOnce more she received a high price for the cure, and her fame got\nthe more bruited abroad.\n\nBut the devil went into another queen, and possessed himself of\nher. The fame of the two cures had spread so far that the wife was\nsoon called in to try her powers again.\n\n'I really can't,' she pleaded; but the people said:\n\n'What you did for the other two you can do for this one; and, if you\ndon't, we will cut off your head.'\n\nTo save her head, therefore, she said, 'Then you must shut me up in\na room alone with the queen.'\n\nSo she was shut up in the room with her.\n\n'What! you here again!' exclaimed the devil as soon as he perceived\nher. 'No; I positively won't go this time; I couldn't be better off\nthan inside this old queen, and till you came I was perfectly happy.'\n\n'They threaten to take my head if I don't make you go; so what am I\nto do?'\n\n'Then let them take your head, and let that be an end of it,' replied\nthe devil testily.\n\n'You are a pretty husband, indeed, to say such a speech to a\nwife!' answered she in a high-pitched voice, which he knew was the\nforetaste of one of those terrible storms he could never resist.\n\nBasta! she stormed so loud that she sickened him of her for good and\nall, and this time, to escape her, instead of possessing himself of\nany more kings and queens, he went straight off to Hell, and never\ncame forth any more for fear of meeting her.\n\n\n\n[For variants of this Ciarpa, see Ralston's 'Russian Folk Tales,'\npp. 37-43; 'The Ill-tempered Princess' in 'Patra\u00f1as,' &c.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROOT.\n\n\nThere was a rich count who married an extravagant wife. As he had\nplenty of money he let her spend whatever she liked. But he had no idea\nwhat a woman could spend, and very much surprised was he when he found\nthat dressmakers, and milliners, and hairdressers, and shoemakers had\nmade such a hole in his fortune that there was very little left. He\nsaw it was high time to look after it, and he ventured to tender\nsome words of remonstrance; but the moment he began to speak about\nit she went into hysterics. There was such a dreadful scene that\nhe feared to approach the subject again, but the matter became so\nserious that at last he was obliged to do so. The least allusion,\nhowever, brought on another fit of hysterics.\n\nWhat was he to do? To go on at this extravagant rate was impossible;\nequally impossible was it to endure the terrible scenes which ensued\nwhen he attempted to make her more careful.\n\nAt last he went to a doctor whom he knew, and asked him if he could\ngive him any remedy for hysterics, telling him the whole story of\nwhat he wanted it for.\n\n'Oh, yes!' replied the doctor; 'I have an infallible cure. It is a\ncertain root which must be applied very sharply to the back of the\nneck. If it doesn't succeed with the first half-dozen applications,\nyou must go on till it does. It never fails in the end.' So saying, he\ngave him a stout root, as thick as a walking stick, with a knobbed end.\n\nStrong with the promised remedy, the husband went home, and sent word\nto all the dressmakers, milliners, hairdressers, and shoemakers that\nhe would pay for nothing more except what he ordered himself. Indeed\nhe met the shoemaker on the step of the door, who had just come to\ntake the measure for a pair of velvet slippers.\n\n'Don't bring them,' he said; 'she has seven or eight pairs already,\nand that is quite enough.'\n\nThen he went up to his wife, and told her what he had done. Such a\nscene of hysterics as he had never imagined before awaited him now,\nbut he, full of confidence in his remedy, took no notice further than\nto go up to her and apply the root very smartly to the back of her\nneck as he had been directed.\n\n'But to me it seems that was all one with beating her with a stick,'\nexclaimed another old woman who was sitting in the room knitting.\n\n'Of course! That's just the fun of it!' replied the narrator. 'And\nthe beauty of it was that he was so simple that he thought it was\nsome virtue in the root that was to effect the cure.'\n\nThe hysterics stopped, and he ran off to the doctor to thank him for\nthe capital remedy. The wife ran off, too, and went to her friends\ncrying with terrible complaints that her husband would not allow her\na single thing to put on, and, moreover, had even been beating her.\n\nWhen the count got back from the doctor, he found the father and half\nthe family there ready to abuse him for making his wife go about with\nnothing on, and beating her into the bargain.\n\n'It is all a mistake,' said the count. 'I will allow her everything\nthat is right, only I will order myself what I pay for; and, as to\nbeating her, I only applied this root which I got from the doctor to\ncure hysterics; nothing more.'\n\n'Oh! it's a case of hysterics is it!' said the father; 'then it is\nall quite right,' and he and the rest went away; and the count and\nhis wife got on very well after that, and he never had to make use\nof the doctor's root again.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUEEN AND THE TRIPE-SELLER. [348]\n\n\nThey say there was a queen who had such a bad temper that she made\neverybody about her miserable. Whatever her husband might do to please\nher, she was always discontented, and as for her maids she was always\nslapping their faces.\n\nThere was a fairy who saw all this, and she said to herself, 'This\nmust not be allowed to go on;' so she went and called another fairy,\nand said, 'What shall we do to teach this naughty queen to behave\nherself?' and they could not imagine what to do with her; so they\nagreed to think it over, and meet again another day.\n\nWhen they met again, the first fairy said to the other, 'Well, have\nyou found any plan for correcting this naughty queen?'\n\n'Yes,' replied the second fairy; 'I have found an excellent plan. I\nhave been up and all over the whole town, and in a little dirty back\nlane [349] I have found a tripe-seller as like to this queen as two\npeas.' [350]\n\n'Excellent!' exclaimed the first fairy. 'I see what you mean to\ndo. One of us will take some of the queen's clothes and dress up the\ntripe-seller, and the other will take some of the tripe-seller's\nclothes and dress up the queen in them, and then we will exchange\nthem till the queen learns better manners.'\n\n'That's the plan,' replied the second fairy. 'You have said it\nexactly. When shall we begin?'\n\n'This very night,' said the first fairy.\n\n'Agreed!' said the second fairy; and that very night, while everyone\nelse was gone quietly to bed they went, one into the palace and fetched\nsome of the queen's clothes, and, bringing them to the tripe-seller's\nroom, placed them by the side of her bed; and the other went to the\ntripe-seller's room and fetched her clothes, and took them and put\nthem by the side of the queen's bed. They also woke them very early,\nand when each got up she put on the things that were by the side\nof the bed, thinking they were the things she had left there the\nnight before. Thus the queen was dressed like a tripe-seller, and\nthe tripe-seller like a queen.\n\nThen one fairy took the queen, dressed like a tripe-seller, and put\nher down in the tripe-seller's shop, and the other fairy took the\ntripe-seller, dressed like a queen, and placed her in the palace,\nand both of them did their work so swiftly that neither the queen\nnor the tripe-seller perceived the flight at all.\n\nThe queen was very much astonished at finding herself in a tripe-shop,\nand began staring about, wondering how she got there.\n\n'Here! Don't stand gaping about like that!' cried the tripe-man,\n[351] who was a very hot-tempered fellow; 'Why, you haven't boiled\nthe coffee!'\n\n'Boiled the coffee!' repeated the queen, hardly apprehending what\nhe meant.\n\n'Yes; you haven't boiled the coffee!' said the tripe-man. 'Don't\nrepeat my words, but do your work!' and he took her by the shoulders,\nput the coffee-pot in her hand, and stood over her looking so fierce\nthat she was frightened into doing what she had never done or seen\ndone in all her life before.\n\nPresently the coffee began to boil over.\n\n'There! Don't waste all the coffee like that!' cried the tripe-man, and\nhe got up and gave her a slap, which made the tears come in her eyes.\n\n'Don't blubber!' said the tripe-man; 'but bring the coffee here and\npour it out.'\n\nThe queen did as she was told; but when she began to drink it, though\nshe had made it herself, it was so nasty she didn't know how to drink\nit. It was very different stuff from what she got at the palace; but\nthe tripe-man had his eye on her, and she didn't dare not to drink it.\n\n'A halfp'th of cat's-meat!' [352] sang out a small boy in the shop.\n\n'Why don't you go and serve the customer?' said the tripe-man,\nknocking the cup out of the queen's hand.\n\nFearing another slap, she rose hastily to give the boy what he wanted,\nbut not knowing one thing in the shop from another, she gave him a\nlarge piece of the best tripe fit for a prince.\n\n'Oh, what fine tripe to-day!' cried the small boy, and ran away as\nfast as he could.\n\nIt was in vain the tripe-man halloed after him, he was in too great\na hurry to secure his prize to think of returning.\n\n'Look what you've done!' cried the tripe-man, giving the queen\nanother slap; 'you've given that boy for a penny a bunch of tripe\nworth a shilling.' Luckily, other customers came in and diverted the\nman's attention.\n\nPresently all the tripe hanging up had been sold, and more customers\nkept coming in.\n\n'What has come to you, to-day!' roared the tripe-man, as the queen\nstood not knowing what to do with herself. 'Do you mean to say you\nhaven't washed that other lot of tripe!' and this time he gave her\na kick.\n\nTo escape his fury, the queen turned to do her best with washing the\nother tripe, but she did it so awkwardly that she got a volley of\nabuse and blows too.\n\nThen came dinner-time, and nothing prepared, or even bought to\nprepare, for dinner. Another stormy scene ensued at the discovery,\nand the tripe-man went to dine at the inn, leaving her to go without\nany dinner at all, in punishment for having neglected to prepare it.\n\nWhile he was gone she helped all the customers to the wrong things,\nand, when he came home, got another scolding and more blows for her\nstupidity. And all through the afternoon it was the same story.\n\nBut the tripe-seller, when she found herself all in a palace, with\nhalf-a-dozen maids waiting to attend her, was equally bewildered. When\nthey kept asking her if there was nothing she pleased to want, she\nkept answering, 'No thank you,' in such a gentle tone, the maids\nbegan to think that a reign of peace had come to them at last.\n\nBy-and-by, when the ladies came, instead of saying, as the queen had\nbeen wont, 'What an ugly dress you have got; go and take it off!' she\nsaid, 'How nice you look; how tasteful your dress is!'\n\nAfterwards the king came in, bringing her a rare nosegay. Instead\nof throwing it on one side to vex him, as the queen had been wont,\nshe showed so much delight, and expressed her thanks so many times,\nthat he was quite overcome.\n\nThe change that had come over the queen soon became the talk of the\nwhole palace, and everyone congratulated himself on an improvement\nwhich made them all happy. The king was no less pleased than all\nthe rest, and for the first time for many years he said he would\ndrive out with the queen; for on account of her bad temper he had\nlong given up driving with her. So the carriage came round with four\nprancing horses, and an escort of cavalry to ride before and behind\nit. The tripe-seller hardly could believe she was to drive in this\nsplendid carriage, but the king handed her in before she knew where\nshe was. Then, as he was so pleased with her gentle and grateful ways,\nhe further asked her to say which way she would like to drive.\n\nThe tripe-seller, partly because she was too much frightened to\nthink of any other place, and partly because she thought it would\nbe nice to drive in state through her own neighbourhood, named the\nbroader street out of which turned the lane in which she lived, for\nthe royal carriage could hardly have turned down the lane itself. The\nking repeated the order, and away drove the royal cort\u00e8ge.\n\nThe circumstance of the king and queen driving out together was\nsufficient to excite the attention of the whole population, and\nwherever they passed the people crowded into the streets; thus a volley\nof shouts and comments ran before the carriage towards the lane of the\ntripe-man. The tripe-man was at the moment engaged in administering\na severe chastisement to the queen for her latest mistake, and the\nroar of the people's voices afforded a happy pretext for breaking\naway from him.\n\nShe ran with the rest to the opening of the lane just as the royal\ncarriage was passing.\n\n'My husband! my husband!' she screamed as the king drove by, and\nplaintive as was her voice, and different from her usual imperious\ntone, he heard it and turned his head towards her.\n\n'My husband! my royal husband!' pleaded the humbled queen.\n\nThe king, in amazement, stopped the carriage and gazed from the queen\nin the gutter to the tripe-seller in royal array by his side, unable\nto solve the problem.\n\n'This is certainly my wife!' he said at last, as he extended his\nhand to the queen. 'Who then can you be?' he added, addressing the\ntripe-seller.\n\n'I will tell the truth,' replied the good tripe-seller. 'I am no\nqueen; I am the poor wife of the tripe-seller down the lane there;\nbut how I came into the palace is more than I can say.'\n\n'And how come you here?' said the king, addressing the real queen.\n\n'That, neither can I tell; I thought you had sent me hither to punish\nme for my bad temper; but if you will only take me back I will never\nbe bad-tempered again; only take me away from this dreadful tripe-man,\nwho has been beating me all day.'\n\nThen the king made answer: 'Of course you must come back with me,\nfor you are my wife. But,' he said to the tripe-seller; 'what shall\nI do with you? After you have been living in luxury in the palace,\nyou will feel it hard to go back to sell tripe.'\n\n'It's true I have not many luxuries at home,' answered the\ntripe-seller; 'but yet I had rather be with my husband than in any\npalace in the world;' and she descended from the carriage, while the\nqueen got in.\n\n'Stop!' said the king. 'This day's transformation, howsoever it was\nbrought about, has been a good day, and you have been so well behaved,\nand so truth-spoken, I don't like your going back to be beaten by\nthe tripe-man.'\n\n'Oh, never mind that,' said the good wife; 'he never beats me unless I\ndo something very stupid. And, after all, he's my husband, and that's\nenough for me.'\n\n'Well, if you're satisfied, I won't interfere any further,' said the\nking; 'except to give you some mark of my royal favour.'\n\nSo he bestowed on the tripe-man and his wife a beautiful villa, with\na nice casino outside the gates, on condition that he never beat her\nany more.\n\nThe tripe-man was so pleased with the gifts which had come to him\nthrough his wife's good conduct, that he kept his word, and was\nalways thereafter very kind to her. And the queen was so frightened\nat the thought that she might find herself suddenly transformed into\na tripe-seller again, that she kept a strict guard over her temper,\nand became the delight of her husband and the whole court.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BAD-TEMPERED QUEEN. [353]\n\n\nThey say there was a queen who was so bad-tempered that no one who\ncould help it would come near her. All the servants ran away when she\ncame out of her apartment, for fear she should scold and maltreat them;\nall the people ran away when she drove out, for fear she should vex\nthem with some tyrannical order.\n\nAs she was rich and beautiful, and ruled over vast dominions, many\nprinces--who in their distant kingdoms had heard nothing of her\nfailing--came to sue for her hand, but she sent them all away and\nwould have nothing to say to any of them. She used to say she did not\nwant to have anyone to be her master; she had rather live and govern\nby herself, and have everything her own way.\n\nAs time went on, however, the council of state grew dissatisfied\nwith this resolution. They insisted that she must marry, that there\nmight be a family of princes to carry on the succession to the throne\nwithout dispute. When the queen found that she could not help it she\nagreed she would marry; but she was determined she would not marry\nany of the princes who had come to court her, because, as they were\nequal to herself in birth and state, they would want to rule over her\nand expect obedience from her. She declared she would marry no one\nbut a certain duke, who, as she had observed in the council and in\nthe state banquets and balls, was always very quiet and hardly ever\nspoke at all. She thought he would make a nice quiet manageable sort\nof husband, and she would have him if she must have one at all.\n\nThe duke was as silent as usual when he was spoken to about it; but\nas he made no objection he was reckoned to have consented, and the\nmarriage was duly solemnised.\n\nAs soon as the marriage was over the queen went on making her\narrangements and ordering matters in the palace just as if nothing had\nhappened, and she were still her own mistress. In particular she issued\ninvitations for the grandest ball she had ever given, asking to it all\nthe ministers and their families, and all the nobility of the kingdom.\n\nThe husband said nothing to all this, only a few hours before the time\nappointed for the banquet he called to the queen, saying: 'Put on your\ntravelling dress, and make haste; the carriage will be round directly.'\n\n'I'm not going to put on my travelling dress,' answered the queen\nscornfully; 'I am just seeing about my evening dress for the banquet\nthis evening.'\n\n'If you are not ready in your travelling dress in five minutes,\nwhen the carriage comes round, it will be worse for you. Mind I have\nwarned you.'\n\nAnd he looked so determined that she quailed before him.\n\n'How can we be going into the country, when I have invited half the\nkingdom to a banquet?' exclaimed the queen.\n\n'I have invited no one,' answered the husband quietly. 'Don't stand\nhesitating when I tell you to do a thing; go and get ready directly! we\nare going into the country!' he added in his most positive voice,\nand, though she shed many secret tears over the loss of the banquet,\nshe ventured to oppose nothing more to his orders, but went up and\ndressed, and when the carriage came round she was nearly ready. In\nabout five minutes she came down.\n\n'I won't say anything this time about your keeping me waiting,' he\nsaid when she appeared; 'but mind it does not happen again, or you\nwill be sorry for it.'\n\nThe queen had a favourite little dog, which she fondled and talked to\nall the way, to show she was offended with her husband and independent\nof his conversation.\n\nWatching an opportunity when she was silent, the husband said to the\nlittle dog, 'Jump on to my lap.'\n\n'He's not going to obey you,' said the queen contemptuously; 'he's\nmy dog!'\n\n'I keep no one about me who does not obey me,' said her husband\nquietly; and he took out his pistol and shot the dog through the head.\n\nThe queen began to understand that the husband she had chosen was\nnot a person to be trifled with, nor did she venture even to utter\na complaint.\n\nWhen they arrived at the villa, as the queen was going to her apartment\nto undress, her husband called her to him into his room and bade her\npull off his boots.\n\nThe queen's first impulse was to utter a haughty refusal; but by this\ntime she had learnt that, as she would certainly have to give in to him\nin the end, it was better to do his bidding with a good grace at the\nfirst. So she said nothing, but knelt down and pulled off his boots.\n\nWhen she had done this he got up and said: 'Now sit down in this\narmchair and I will take off your shoes; for my way is that one should\nhelp the other. If you behave to me as a wife should, you need never\nfear but that I shall behave to you as a husband should.'\n\nBy the time their visit to the country was at an end, and when they\nreturned to the capital, everybody found their naughty queen had\nbecome the most angelic being imaginable.\n\n\n\n[After people's bad tempers, their follies form the most prolific\nsubject of the Ciarpe.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SIMPLE WIFE. [354]\n\n\nThere was a man and his wife who had a young daughter to marry; and\nthere was a man who was seeking a wife. So the man who was seeking\na wife came to the man who had a daughter to marry, and said, 'Give\nme your daughter for a wife.'\n\n'Yes,' said the man who had a daughter to marry; [355] 'you'll do\nvery well; you're just about the sort of son-in-law I want.' And\nthen he added: 'If our daughter is to be betrothed to-day, it is the\noccasion for a feast.' So to the wife he said, 'Prepare the table;'\nand to the daughter he said, 'Draw the wine.'\n\nThe daughter went down into the cellar to draw the wine. But as she\ndrew the wine she began to cry, saying: 'If I am to be married I\nshall have a child, and the child will be a son, and the son will be\na priest, and the priest will be a bishop, and the bishop will be a\ncardinal, and the cardinal will be a pope.' And she cried and cried,\nand the wine was running all the time, so that the bottle [356]\nshe was filling ran over, and went on running over.\n\nThen said the father and mother: 'What can the girl be doing down in\nthe cellar so long?' But the mother said: 'I must go and see.'\n\nSo the mother went down to see why she was so long, but the moment\nshe came into the cellar she, too, began to cry; so that the wine\nstill went on running over.\n\nThen the father said: 'What can the girl and her mother both be doing\nso long down in the cellar? I must go and see.'\n\nSo the father went down into the cellar; but the moment he got into\nthe cellar he, too, began to cry, and could do nothing for crying;\nso the wine still went on running over.\n\nThen he who had come to seek a wife said: 'What can these people\nall be doing so long down in the cellar?' So he, too, went down to\nsee, and found them all crying in the cellar and the wine running\nover. Only when the wine was all run out they left off crying and\ncame upstairs again.\n\nThen the betrothal and the marriage were happily celebrated.\n\nOne day after they were married the husband went into the market to\nbuy meat, and he bought a large provision because he had invited a\nfriend to dinner. When the wife saw him buy such a quantity of meat\nshe began to cry, saying: 'What can we do with such a lot of meat?'\n\n'Oh, never mind, don't make a misery of it,' said the husband;\n'put it behind you.' [357]\n\nThe simple wife took the meat and went home, saying to her parents,\n[358] and crying the while: 'My husband says I am to put all this\nmeat behind me! Do tell me what can I do?'\n\n'You can't put the whole lot of it behind you, that's certain,'\nreplied the equally simple mother; 'but we can manage it between us.'\n\nThen she took the meat and put all the hard, bony part on one chair,\nwhere she made the father sit down on it; all the fat, skinny part she\nput on another chair, and made the wife sit down on it; and the fleshy,\nmeaty part she put on another chair, and sat down on that herself.\n\nPresently the husband came with his friend, ready for dinner, knocking\nat the door. None of the three dared to move, however, that they might\nnot cease to be fulfilling his injunctions. Then he looked through\nthe keyhole, and, seeing them all sitting down without moving when\nhe knocked, he thought they must all be dead; so he ran and fetched\na locksmith, who opened the door for him.\n\n'What on earth are you all doing there,' exclaimed the hungry husband,\n'instead of getting dinner ready?'\n\n'You told me to put the meat behind me, and I have done so,' answered\nthe simple wife.\n\nThen he saw they were sitting on the meat. Out of all patience with\nsuch idiocy, he exclaimed: 'This is the last you'll ever see of\nme. At least I promise you not to come back till I have met three\nother people as idiotic as you, and that's hardly likely to occur.'\n\nWith that he took his friend to a tavern to dine, and then put on a\npilgrim's dress and went wandering over the country.\n\nIn the first city he came to there was great public rejoicing going\non. The princess had just been married, and the court was keeping high\nfestival. As he came up to the palace the bride and bridegroom were\njust come back from church. The bride wore one of those very high\nround headdresses that they used to wear in olden time, with a long\nveil hanging from it. It was so very high that she could not by any\nmeans get in at the door, and there she stuck, not knowing what to\ndo. Then she began to cry, saying: 'What shall I do? what shall I do?'\n\n'Shall I tell you what to do?' said the pilgrim-husband, drawing near.\n\n'Oh, pray do, if you can; I will give you a hundred scudi if you will\nonly show me how to get in.'\n\nSo he went and made her go a few steps backward, and then bow her\nhead very low, and so she could pass under the door.\n\n'Really, I have found one woman as simple as my people at home,' said\nthe pilgrim-husband, as he sat down to the banquet at the special\ninvitation of the princess, in reward for his services. Afterwards\nshe counted out a hundred scudi to him, and he went further.\n\nFurther along the road he came to a farm, with barns and cattle and\nplenty of stock about, and a large well at which a woman was drawing\nwater. Instead of dipping in the pail, she had got the well-rope\nknotted into a huge knot, which she kept dipping into the water and\nsqueezing out into the pail, and she kept crying as she did so: 'Oh,\nhow long shall I be filling the pail! The pail will never be full!'\n\n'Shall I show you how to fill it?' asked the pilgrim-husband,\ndrawing near.\n\n'Oh, yes, do show me if you can. I will give you a hundred scudi if\nyou will only show me.'\n\nThen he took all the knots out of the rope and let down the pail by\nit, and filled it in a minute.\n\n'Here's a second woman as stupid as my people at home,' said the\npilgrim-husband, as the farmer's wife asked him in to dinner in\nreward for his great services; 'if I go on at this rate I shall have\nto return to her at last, in spite of my protestations.'\n\nAfter that the farmer's wife counted out the hundred scudi of the\npromised reward, and he went on further, having first packed six eggs\ninto his hollow staff as provision for the journey.\n\nTowards nightfall he arrived at a lone cottage. Here he knocked and\nasked a bed for his night's lodging.\n\n'I can't give you that,' said a voice from the inside; 'for I am a\nlone widow. I can't take a man in to sleep here.'\n\n'But I am a pilgrim,' replied he; 'let me in at least to cook a bit\nof supper.'\n\n'That I don't mind doing,' said the good wife, and she opened the door.\n\n'Thanks, good friend!' said the pilgrim-husband as he sat down by\nthe stove; 'now add to your charity a couple of eggs in a pan.' [359]\n\nSo she gave him a pan and two eggs, and a bit of butter to cook them\nin; but he took the six eggs out of his staff and broke them into\nthe pan, too.\n\nPresently, when the good wife turned her head his way again,\nand saw eight eggs swimming in the pan instead of two, she said:\n'Lack-a-day! you must surely be some strange being from the other\nworld. Do you know so-and-so there' (naming her dead husband)?\n\n'Oh, yes,' said the pilgrim-husband, enjoying the joke; 'I know him\nvery well; he lives just next to me.'\n\n'Only to think of that!' replied the poor woman. 'And do tell me,\nhow do you get on in the other world? What sort of a life is it?'\n\n'Oh, not so very bad; it depends what sort of a place you get. The\npart where we are is not very bad, except that we get very little to\neat. Your husband, for instance, is nearly starved.'\n\n'No, really!' cried the good wife, clasping her hands; 'only fancy! my\ngood husband starving out there; so fond as he was of a good dinner,\ntoo!' Then she added, coaxingly: 'As you know him so well, perhaps you\nwouldn't mind doing him the charity of taking him a little somewhat\nto give him a treat. There are such lots of things I could easily\nsend him.'\n\n'O, dear no, not at all; I'll do it with great pleasure,' answered he;\n'but I'm not going back till to-morrow; and if I don't sleep here I\nmust go on further, and then I shan't come by this way.'\n\n'That's true,' replied the widow. 'Ah, well, I mustn't mind what the\nfolks say, for such an opportunity as this may never occur again. You\nmust sleep in my bed, and I must sleep on the hearth; and in the\nmorning I'll load a donkey with provisions for my poor dear husband.'\n\n'Oh, no,' replied the pilgrim; 'you shan't be disturbed in your bed;\nonly let me sleep on the hearth, that will do for me; and as I'm an\nearly riser I can be gone before anyone's astir, so folks won't have\nanything to say.'\n\nSo it was done, and an hour before sunrise the woman was up loading\nthe donkey with the best of her stores. There were ham, and maccaroni,\nand flour, and cheese, and wine. All this she committed to the pilgrim,\nsaying: 'You'll send the donkey back, won't you?'\n\n'Of course I would send him back; he'd be no use to us out there:\nbut I shan't get out again myself for another hundred years or so, and\nI fear he won't find his way back alone, for it's no easy way to find.'\n\n'To be sure not; I ought to have thought of that,' replied the\nwidow. 'Ah, well, so as my poor husband gets a good meal never mind\nthe donkey.'\n\nSo the pretended pilgrim from the other world went his way. He hadn't\ngone a hundred yards before the widow called him back.\n\n'Ah, she's beginning to think better of it!' said he to himself;\nand he continued his way, pretending not to hear.\n\n'Good pilgrim!' shouted the widow; 'I forgot one thing. Would any\nmoney be of use to my poor dear husband?'\n\n'Oh dear yes, all the use in the world,' replied the pilgrim; 'you\ncan always get anything for money everywhere.'\n\n'Oh, do come back then, and I'll trouble you with a hundred scudi\nfor him.'\n\nThe pretended pilgrim came back willingly for the hundred scudi,\nand the widow counted them out to him.\n\n'There is no help for it,' soliloquised he as he went his way;\n'I must go back to those at home. I have actually found three women\neach more stupid than they.'\n\nSo he went home to live, and complained no more of the simplicity of\nhis wife.\n\n\n\n[We have the German of this story in 'Die Klugen Leute,' Grimm,\np. 407, and again the beginning of it in 'Die Kluge Else' (Clever\nLizzie), Grimm, p. 137 (which ends with the desperation of the wife\nas the second Roman version ends with the death of the husband);\nin some variants given in the 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 53-4; in an\nItalian-Tirolese tale, 'Le donne matte' (the title resembling that\nof the next Roman version); and the ending, in the Norse 'Not a pin\nto choose between them.' Senhor de Saraiva told me the following\nPortuguese story entitled 'Pedro da Malas Artes' (Tricky Peter),\nwhich embodies these incidents, but opens with a different purport.\n\nTricky Peter was a knowing blade; so he went out on his travels to\nset all the world straight; and he found plenty to do.\n\nIn the very first town he came to there was a great commotion. A bride\nhad come to church to be married, and there she stuck at the church\ndoor, mounted on her mule, while the people deliberated whether they\nshould facilitate her ingress by cutting off some of her head or some\nof the mule's legs.\n\n'Let her alight and walk in,' said Tricky Peter; 'and the door will\nbe high enough.' And all the people applauded his wisdom.\n\nAt the next town he found the people all full of discontent, because\none of them had to sit up by turns to tell the others when the\nsun rose.\n\n'I'll give you a bird to perform that office,' said Tricky Peter;\nand he went home and fetched a cock, and then they could all rest\ncomfortably.\n\nAfter this the story has no more silly people to deal with; but\nPeter fools a giant, and overcomes his strength with craft. He does\nnot seem, either, to get paid for his services, as do the heroes of\n'La Sposa Cese,' and all the others.\n\nI have also another Roman story (too long to print here) of a man\nwho sets out with a different purpose again, who meets with three\nsets of people afflicted with similar follies, and who also makes\na good deal of money by his counsel; together with various stories\nin which men go to fetch their wives back from the devil's kingdom,\nget three commissions of a similar nature by the way, for executing\nwhich they get richly paid on their return.\n\nThere is a story in the 5th Tantra given as 'Le Brahme aux vains\nprojets' in Abb\u00e9 Dubois' translation of the 'Pantcha-Tantra,' which\nhas an analogous opening to that of 'La Sposa Cece.' There is another\namong the 'Contes Indiens' published at the end of it, in which four\nBrahmans have a great dispute as to which of them can claim to be\nthe greatest idiot--a strife only second in folly to that of the\n'Three Indolent Boys' in Grimm, p. 551--and they each narrate such\nproof of having acted with consummate folly that the decision given\nis that there is not a pin to choose between them.\n\nIn a somewhat analogous story, which he calls 'Aventures du Gourou\nParamarta,' one of the disciples commits the counting mistake\n'of the well-known Irishman,' in omitting to reckon himself in his\ncomputation, also found in the Russian 'Folk Tales,' p. 54, and they\ngo to buy a foal's egg, just as do certain peasants of the Trentino\nin an Italian-Tirolese 'storiella da rider' [360] (laughable story).]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLA SPOSA CECE.\n\n\n2\n\nAnother version of this story was told me, or rather an entirely\ndifferent story embodying the same purport, which, though full of fun,\nturned on the double meanings of common words of household use too\nhomely for the most part, and some too coarse to please the English\nreader. The husband, among other things, tells his wife to prepare\ndinner for a friend and to mind she has 'brocoli strascinati' and 'uovi\nspersi,' [361] as they are his favourite dishes. 'Strascinare' is to\ndrag anything along, but is technically used to express brocoli chopped\nup and fried, the commonest Roman dish. 'Spergere' is to scatter, but\nthe word is used among common people to express eggs poached in broth,\na favourite delicacy; (eggs poached as in England are called 'uova in\nbianco'). The wife, taking the words literally, drags the brocoli all\nover the house and all over the yard, till it is so nasty it cannot\nbe eaten, instead of frying it, and scatters the eggs all about the\nplace instead of poaching them, and so on through a number of other\nabsurdities difficult to explain in detail. In the end the husband\nfalls ill, partly from her bad cooking and partly from annoyance;\na doctor is called in, who tells her (among other directions which\nshe similarly misunderstands), that he must have nothing but 'brodo,'\n[362] but she is to make it 'alto, alto.' 'Alto' is literally 'high,'\nbut he uses it for 'good,' 'strong;' she, however, understands him\nto mean her to make it in a high place, and goes up on the roof to\nmake it. When the husband asks for it she says she cannot get it for\nhim then as it is up on the roof.\n\nUltimately the husband dies of vexation.\n\nThere is a very familiar German story which everyone who has any\nacquaintance with the people must have met, of a lady who complains to\nher servant that the tea has not 'drawn,' and the simple girl answers,\n'It is not my fault, I have drawn it all about the place enough I'm\nsure' (Ich hab' es genug umhergezogen).\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE FOOLISH WOMAN. [363]\n\n\nThere was once a couple well-to-do in the world, who had one only\ndaughter.\n\nThe son of a neighbour came to ask her in marriage, and as the father\nthought he would do, the father asked him to dinner, and sent the\ndaughter down into the cellar to draw the wine.\n\n'If I am married,' said the girl to herself, and began to cry as\nshe drew the wine, 'I shall have a child, and the child will be a\nboy, and the boy will be called Petrillo, and by-and-by he will\ndie, and I shall be left to lament him, and to cry all day long\n\"Petrillo! Petrillo! where are you!\"' and she went on crying, and\nthe wine went on running over.\n\nThen the mother went down to see what kept her so long, and she\nrepeated the story all over to her, and the mother answered, 'Right\nyou are, my girl!' and she, too, began to cry, and the wine was all\nthe time running over.\n\nThen the father went down, and they repeated the story to him, and he,\ntoo, said, 'Right you are!' and he, too, began to cry, and the wine\nall the time went on running all over the floor.\n\nThen the young man also goes down to see what is the matter, and\nstops the wine running, and makes them all come up.\n\n'But,' he says, 'I'll not marry the girl till I have wandered over\nthe world and found other three as simple as you.' He dines with them,\nand sets out on his search.\n\nThe first night he goes to bed in an inn, and in the morning he hears\nin the room next him such lamenting and complaining that he goes in\nto see what is the matter. A man is sitting by the side of the bed\nlamenting because he cannot get his stockings on.\n\nThe young man says, 'Take hold of one side this way, and the other\nside that way, and pull them up.'\n\n'Ah, to be sure!' cries the man, and gives him a hundred scudi for\nthe benefit he has done him.\n\n'There's one of my three simpletons, at all events,' says the young\nman, and journeys on.\n\nThe next day, at the inn where he spends the night, he hears a noise\nbru, bru! goes in to see, and finds a man fruitlessly trying to put\nwalnuts into a sack by sticking a fork into them.\n\n'You'll never do it that way,' says the young man; and he shows him\nhow to scoop them up with both his hands and so pour them in.\n\n'Ah, to be sure!' answers the man, and gives him a hundred scudi for\nthe favour he has done him.\n\n'There is my second simpleton,' says the young man, and goes further.\n\nThe third day----Ah! I can't remember what he meets the third day;\nbut it is something equally stupid, and he gets another hundred scudi,\nand goes back and marries the girl as he had promised.\n\nWhen they had been married some time, he goes out for two or three\ndays to shoot.\n\n'I'll come with you,' says the wife.\n\n'Well, it's not quite the thing,' answered he; 'but perhaps it's\nbetter than leaving you at home; but mind you pull the door after you.'\n\n'Oh yes, of course,' answers the simple wife, and pulls it so\neffectually that she lifts it off its hinges and carries it along\nwith her.\n\nWhen they had gone some way he looks back and sees her carrying\nthe door.\n\n'What on earth are you bringing the door along for!' he cries.\n\n'You told me to pull it after me,' answers she.\n\n'Of course, I only meant you to pull it to, to make the house secure,'\nhe says.\n\n'If merely pulling it to, made the house secure, how much securer it\nmust be when I pull it all this way!' answers she.\n\nHe finds it useless to reason with her, and they go on. At night they\nclimb up into a tree to sleep, the woman still carrying the door with\nher. A band of robbers come and count their gains under the tree; the\nwoman from sheer weariness, and though she believes it will rouse the\nrobbers to come and kill them, drops the door upon them. They take\nit for an earthquake and run away. The man and his wife then gather\nup the money, and are rich for the rest of their lives.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\n[A version from Sinigaglia was very like the last. It only took up the\nstory, however, after the husband and wife are married. The first silly\nthing the wife does is the feat of the 'brocoli strascinati,' as in\n'La Sposa Cece,' No. 2. Some variety is always thrown in in the way\nof telling. This wife was represented as having a very sweet voice,\nand saying, 'Si, si, marito mio!' in the gentlest and tenderest\nway in the world, to everything her husband tells her, though she\nmismanages everything so. After the brocoli affair he tells her to\ncook some beans for dinner. 'Si, si, marito mio,' she says in her\nsweet tone, but takes four beans only and boils them in a pot of\nwater. When he comes in and asks if the beans are done, she says,\n'Si, si, marito mio!' She says she has cooked two beans apiece,\nbut one has boiled away, so she will only take one for her share.\n\nHe finds it impossible to live with her, and goes away, but she in\nher simplicity says if he goes away she will go with him! When he\nfinds he can't prevent this he tells her to pull the door after her,\nand the story has the same ending as the last.\n\nAfter tales of simple wives come similar tales of simple boys. Compare\n'Russian Folktales,' pp. 10 and 49. An analogous incident to the\nselling of the linen to a statue in the following is told of a grown-up\npeasant in Grimm's 'Der gute Handel,' p. 30, which story is not unlike\none called 'How the poorest became the richest' I have given from the\nGerman-Tirolese province of Vorarlberg at the end of 'Household Stories\nfrom the Land of H\u00f6fer,' a close counterpart of which I have met in\na Roman periodical, told as collected at Modena. The Italian-Tirolese\ncounterpart bears the name of 'Turlul\u00f9,' and resembles the Roman very\nclosely. There is a place in German Tirol where they not only tell the\nstory, but point out the Bildstocklein (the wayside image), to which\nthe simple boy sold his linen; I cannot recall the place now, though I\nremember having occasion to mention it in 'Traditions of Tirol' in the\n'Monthly Packet.' In the German there is also 'Der gescheidte Hans,'\nwhich is somewhat different in structure; but Scheible, 'Schaltjahr,'\ni. 493, gives a story which contains both ways of telling.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOOBY. [364]\n\n\nThey say there was once a widow woman who had a very simple\nson. Whatever she set him to do he muddled in some way or other.\n\n'What am I to do?' said the poor mother to a neighbour one day. 'The\nboy eats and drinks, and has to be clothed; what am I to do if I am\nto make no profit of him?'\n\n'You have kept him at home long enough;' answered the neighbour. 'Try\nsending him out, now; maybe that will answer better.'\n\nThe mother took the advice, and the next time she had got a piece of\nlinen spun she called her boy, and said to him:\n\n'If I send you out to sell this piece of linen, do you think you can\nmanage to do it without committing any folly?'\n\n'Yes, mama,' answered the booby.\n\n'You always say \"yes mama,\" but you do contrive to muddle everything\nall the same,' replied the mother. 'Now, listen attentively to all I\nsay. Walk straight along the road without turning to right or left;\ndon't take less than such and such a price for it. Don't have anything\nto say to women who chatter; whether you sell it to anyone you meet\nby the way, or carry it into the market, offer it only to some quiet\nsort of body whom you may see standing apart, and not gossiping and\nprating, for such as they will persuade you to take some sort of a\nprice that won't suit me at all.'\n\nThe booby promised to follow these directions very exactly, and\nstarted on his way.\n\nOn he walked, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left,\nthus passing the turnings which led to the villages, to one or other\nof which he ought to have gone. But his mother had only meant that\nhe was not to turn off the pathway and lose himself.\n\nPresently he met the wife of the syndic of the next town, who was\ndriving out with her maids, but had got out to walk a little stretch of\nthe way, as the day was fine. The syndic's wife was talking cheerfully\nwith her maids, and when one of them caught sight of the simpleton,\nshe said to her mistress:\n\n'Here is the simple son of the poor widow by the brook.'\n\n'What are you going to do, my good lad?' said the syndic's wife kindly.\n\n'Not going to tell you, because you were chattering and gossiping,'\nreplied the booby boorishly, and tried to pass on.\n\nThe syndic's wife forgave his boorishness, and added:\n\n'I see your mother has sent you to sell this piece of linen. I will\nbuy it of you, and that will save you walking further; put it in the\ncarriage, and I'll give you so much for it.'\n\nThough she had offered him twice as much as his mother had told him\nto get for it, he would only answer:\n\n'Can't sell it to you, because you were chattering and gossiping.'\n\nNor could they prevail on him to stop a moment longer.\n\nFurther along he came to a statue by the roadside.\n\n'Here's one who stands apart and doesn't chatter,' said the booby to\nhimself. 'This is the one to sell the linen to.' Then aloud to the\nstatue, 'Will you buy my linen, good friend?' Then to himself. 'She\ndoesn't speak, so it's all right.' Then to the statue, 'The price is\nso-and-so; have the money ready against I come back, as I have to go\non and buy some yarn for mother.'\n\nOn he went and bought the yarn, and then came back to the statue. Some\none passing by meanwhile, and seeing the linen lie there had picked\nit up and walked off with it.\n\nFinding it gone, the booby said to himself, 'It's all right, she's\ntaken it.' Then to the statue, 'Where's the money I told you to\nhave ready against I came back?' As the statue remained silent,\nthe booby began to get uneasy. 'My mother will be finely angry if I\ngo back without the linen or the money,' he said to himself. Then to\nthe statue, 'If you don't give me the money directly I'll hit you on\nthe head.'\n\nThe booby was as good as his word; lifting his thick rough\nwalking-stick, he gave the statue such a blow that he knocked the\nhead off.\n\nBut the statue was hollow, and filled with gold coin.\n\n'That's where you keep your money, is it?' said the booby, 'all right,\nI can pay myself.' So he filled his pockets with money and went back\nto his mother.\n\n'Look, mama! here's the price of the piece of linen.'\n\n'All right!' said the mother out loud; but to herself she said, 'where\ncan I ever hide all this lot of money? I have got no place to hide\nit but in this earthen jar, and if he knows how much it is worth, he\nwill be letting out the secret to other people, and I shall be robbed.'\n\nSo she put the money in the earthen jar, and said to the boy:\n\n'They've cheated you in making you think that was coin; it's nothing\nbut a lot of rusty nails; [365] but never mind, you'll know better\nnext time.' And she went out to her work.\n\nWhile she was gone out to her work there came by an old rag-merchant.\n\n'Ho! here, rag-merchant!' said the booby, who had acquired a taste\nfor trading. 'What will you give me for this lot of rusty nails?' and\nhe showed him the jar full of gold coin.\n\nThe rag-merchant saw that he had to do with an idiot, so he said:\n\n'Well, old nails are not worth very much; but as I'm a good-natured\nold chap, I'll give you twelve pauls for them,' because he knew he\nmust offer enough to seem a prize to the idiot.\n\n'You may have them at that,' said the booby. And the rag-merchant\npoured the coin out into his sack, and gave the fool the twelve pauls.\n\n'Look mama, look! I've sold that lot of old rusty worthless nails\nfor twelve pauls. Isn't that a good bargain?'\n\n'Sold them for twelve pauls!' cried the widow, tearing her hair,\n'Why, it was a fortune all in gold coin.'\n\n'Can't help it, mama,' replied the booby; 'you told me they were\nrusty nails.'\n\nAnother day she told him to shut the door of the cottage; but as he\nwent to do it he lifted the door off its hinges. His mother called\nafter him in an angry voice, which so frightened him that he ran away,\ncarrying the door on his back.\n\nAs he went along, some one to tease him, said, 'Where did you steal\nthat door?' which frightened him still more, and he climbed up in a\ntree with it to hide it.\n\nAt night there came a band of robbers under the tree, and counted out\nall their gains in large bags of money. The booby was so frightened\nat the sight of so many fierce-looking robbers, that he began to\ntremble and let go of the door.\n\nThe door fell with a bang in the midst of the robbers, who thinking\nit must be that the police were upon them, decamped, leaving all\ntheir money behind.\n\nThe booby came down from the tree and carried the money home to his\nmother, and they became so rich that she was able to appoint a servant\nto attend to him, and keep him from doing any more mischief.\n\n\n\n[After the boys, the girls come in for their share of hard jokes;\nhere is one who figures both as a daughter and a wife. Grimm has\nthe same, with a slight variation, as 'Rumpelstilzchen,' p. 219,\nand the Italian-Tirol Tales give it as 'Tarandand\u00f2;' the incident\non which these two hinge of a supernatural being giving his help\non condition of the person he favours remembering his name, is of\nfrequent occurrence. I have met it in two German-Tirolese stories,\n'The Wilder J\u00e4ger and the Baroness,' and in 'Klein-Else' in\n'Household Stories,' and in a local tradition told me at Salzburg,\nwhich I have given in 'Traditions of Tirol,' No. XVI. in 'Monthly\nPacket,' each time the sprite gets a new name; in this one it was\n'Hahnenzuckerl.' The supernatural helper delivering the girl from\nfuture as well as present labour occurs in the Spanish equivalent,\n'What Ana saw in the Sunbeam,' in 'Patra\u00f1as,' but in favour of a good,\ninstead of a lazy or greedy girl; and so with the girl in the Norse\ntale of 'The Three Aunts.' 'Die faule Spinnerin,' Grimm, p. 495,\nhelps herself to the same end without supernatural aid.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE GLUTTONOUS GIRL. [366]\n\n\nThere was a poor woman who went out to work by the day. She had one\nidle, good-for-nothing daughter, who would never do any work, and\ncared for nothing but eating, always taking the best of everything\nfor herself, and not caring how her mother fared.\n\nOne day the mother, when she went out to her work, left the girl\nsome beans to cook for dinner, and some pieces of bacon-rind [367]\nto stew along with them. When the pieces of bacon-rind were nicely\ndone, she took them out and ate them herself, and then found a pair\nof dirty old shoe-soles, which she pared in slices, and put them into\nthe stew for her mother.\n\nWhen the poor mother came home, not only were there no pieces of\nbacon which she could eat, but the beans themselves were rendered so\nnasty by the shoe-soles that she could not eat them either. Determined\nto give her daughter a good lesson, once for all, on this occasion,\nshe took her outside her cottage door, and beat her well with a stick.\n\nJust as she was administering this chastisement, a farmer [368]\ncame by.\n\n'What are you beating this pretty lass for?' asked the man.\n\n'Because she will work so hard at her household duties that she works\non Sundays and holidays the same as common days,' answered the mother,\nwho, bad as her daughter was, yet had not the heart to give her a\nbad character.\n\n'That is the first time I ever heard of a mother beating her child\nfor doing too much work; the general complaint is that they do too\nlittle. Will you let me have her for a wife? I should like such a\nwife as that.'\n\n'Impossible!' replied the mother, in order to enhance her daughter's\nvalue; 'she does all the work of the house, I can't spare her; what\nshall I do without her?'\n\n'I must give you something to make up for the loss,' replied the\nmerchant; 'but such a notable wife as this I have long been in search\nof, and I must not miss the chance.'\n\n'But I cannot spare such a notable daughter, either,' persisted\nthe mother.\n\n'What do you say if I give you five hundred scudi?'\n\n'If I let her go, it is not because of the five hundred scudi,'\nsaid the mother; 'it is because you seem a husband, who will really\nappreciate her; though I don't say five hundred scudi will not be a\nhelp to a poor lone widow.'\n\n'Let it be agreed then. I am going now to the fair; when I come back\nlet the girl be ready, and I'll take her back with me.'\n\nAccordingly, when the farmer returned from the fair, he fetched the\ngirl away.\n\nWhen he got home his mother came out to ask how his affairs had\nprospered at the fair.\n\n'Middling well, at the fair,' replied the man; 'but, by the way,\nI found a treasure, and I have brought her home to make her my\nwife. She is so hardworking that she can't be kept from working,\neven on Sundays.'\n\n'She doesn't look as if there was much work in her,' observed the\nmother dryly; 'but if you're satisfied that's enough.'\n\nAll went well enough the first week, because she was not expected to do\nmuch just at first, but at the end of that time the husband had to go\nto a distant fair which would keep him absent three weeks. Before he\nwent he took his new wife up into the store-room, and said, 'Here are\nprovisions of all sorts, and you will have all you like to eat and\ndrink; and here is a quantity of hemp, which you can amuse yourself\nwith spinning and weaving if you want more employment than merely\nkeeping the place in order.'\n\nThen he gave her a set of rooms to herself, next the store-chamber,\nthat there might be no cause of quarrel with the mother-in-law, who,\nhe knew, was inclined to be jealous of her, and said good-bye.\n\nLeft to herself, she did no more work than she could help; all the\nnice things she found she cooked and ate, and that was all the work\nshe did. As to the hemp, she never touched it; nor did she even clean\nup the place, or attempt to put it tidy.\n\nWhen the husband had been gone a fortnight, the mother-in-law came\nup to see how she was going on, and when she saw the hemp untouched,\nand the place in disorder, she said, 'So this is how you go on when\nyour husband is away!'\n\n'You mind your affairs, and I'll mind mine,' [369] answered the wife,\nand the mother-in-law went away offended.\n\nNevertheless, it was true that in eight days the husband would be back,\nand might expect to see something done, so she took up a lot of hemp\nand began trying to spin it; but, as she had no idea of how to do it,\nshe went on in the most absurd way imaginable with it.\n\nAs she stood on the top of the outside staircase, twisting it this\nway and that, there passed three deformed fairies. One was lame,\nand one squinted, [370] and one had her head all on one side, because\nshe had a fish-bone stuck in her throat.\n\nThe three fairies called out to ask what she was doing, and when\nshe said 'spinning,' the one who squinted laughed so much that\nher eyes came quite right, and the one who had a bone stuck in her\nthroat laughed so much that the bone came out, and her head became\nstraight again like other people's, and when the lame one saw the\nothers laughing so much, she ran so fast to see what it was that her\nlameness was cured.\n\nThen the three fairies said:\n\n'Since she has cured us of our ailments, we must go in and do her a\ngood turn.'\n\nSo they went in and took the hemp and span it, and wove it, and\ndid as much in the six remaining days as any human being could have\ndone in twenty years; moreover, they cleaned up everything, and made\neverything look spick-and-span new.\n\nThen they gave her a bag of walnuts, saying, 'in half an hour your\nhusband will be home; go to bed and put this bag of walnuts under\nyour back. When he comes in say you have worked so hard that all your\nbones are out of joint; then move the bag of walnuts and they will\nmake a noise, c-r-r-r-r, and he will think it is your bones which\nare loosened, and will say you must never work again.'\n\nWhen the husband came home his mother went out to meet him, saying--\n\n'I told you I did not think there was much work in your\n\"treasure.\" When you go up you'll see what a fine mess the place is\nall in; and as to the hemp, you had better have left it locked up,\nfor a fine mess she has made of that.'\n\nBut the husband went up and found the place all in shining order,\nand so much hemp spun and woven as could scarcely be got through in\ntwenty years. But the wife was laid up in bed.\n\nWhen the husband came near the bed she moved the bag of walnuts and\nthey went c-r-r-r-r.\n\n'You have done a lot of work indeed!' said the husband.\n\n'Yes,' replied the wife; 'but I have put all my bones out of joint;\nonly hear how they rumble!' and she moved the walnuts again, and they\nwent c-r-r-r-r. 'It will be sometime before I am about again.'\n\n'Oh, dear! oh, dear!' said the husband; 'only think of such a treasure\nof a wife being laid up by such marvellous diligence.'\n\nAnd to his mother he said: 'A mother-in-law has never a good word\nfor her daughter-in-law; what you told me was all pure invention.'\n\nBut to the wife he said: 'Mind I will never have you do any work\nagain as long as you live.'\n\nSo from that day forth she had no work to do, but ate and drank and\namused herself from morning till night.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n2\n\nTHE GREEDY DAUGHTER. [371]\n\n\nThere was a mother who had a daughter so greedy that she did not know\nwhat to do with her. Everything in the house she would eat up. When\nthe poor mother came home from work there was nothing left.\n\nBut the girl had a godfather-wolf. [372] The wolf had a frying-pan,\nand the girl's mother was too poor to possess such an article; whenever\nshe wanted to fry anything she sent her daughter to the wolf to borrow\nhis frying-pan, and he always sent a nice omelette in it by way of\nnot sending it empty. But the girl was so greedy and so selfish that\nshe not only always ate the omelette by the way, but when she took\nthe frying-pan back she filled it with all manner of nasty things.\n\nAt last the wolf got hurt at this way of going on, and he came to\nthe house to inquire into the matter.\n\nGodfather-wolf met the mother on the step of the door, returning\nfrom work.\n\n'How do you like my omelettes?' asked the wolf.\n\n'I am sure they would be good if made by our godfather-wolf,' replied\nthe poor woman; 'but I never had the honour of tasting them.'\n\n'Never tasted them! Why, how many times have you sent to borrow\nmy frying-pan?'\n\n'I am ashamed to say how many times; a great many, certainly.'\n\n'And every time I sent you an omelette in it.'\n\n'Never one reached me.'\n\n'Then that hussey of a girl must have eaten them by the way.'\n\nThe poor mother, anxious to screen her daughter, burst into all manner\nof excuses, but the wolf now saw how it all was. To make sure, however,\nhe added: 'The omelettes would have been better had the frying-pan\nnot always been full of such nasty things. I did my best always to\nclean it, but it was not easy.'\n\n'Oh, godfather-wolf, you are joking! I always cleaned it, inside and\nout, as bright as silver, every time before I sent it back!'\n\nThe wolf now knew all, and he said no more to the mother; but the\nnext day, when she was out, he came back.\n\nWhen the girl saw him coming she was so frightened and self-convicted\nthat she ran under the bed to hide herself.\n\nBut to the wolf it was as easy to go under a bed as anywhere else;\nso under he went, and he dragged her out and devoured her. And that\nwas the end of the Greedy Daughter.\n\n\n\n[In the Italian-Tirolese tales is one very similar to this, called\n'Catarinetta.'\n\nAfter the faults of the young, the sins of the old have their share\nof mocking. In the 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 46-50, is a miser story,\nbut, for a wonder, not the least trace of similarity.\n\nIn Scheible's 'Schaltjahr,' vol. i. pp. 169-71, is a very quaint miser\nstory, bringing in also an instance of wolf-transformation, which is\nsaid to have happened 'in Italy,' to a certain Herr v. Schotenberg,\non August 14, 1798. He had seized a poor peasant's only cow for a debt,\nand when, in punishment, all his own cows were struck dead, he accused\nthe peasant's wife of bewitching them, and threatened to have her\nburnt. The peasant's wife answered that it was the judgment of God, not\nhers; and upon that he turned to the crucifix in the farmyard, saying:\n'Oh, you did it, did you? then you may go and eat the carrion you have\nmade, with the dogs.' Then he took out his pistol, shot an arm off\nthe crucifix, and flung it on to the heap of dead cows, saying, 'Now\none piece of carrion lies with the rest!' 'Albeit it was only a wooden\nimage,' says the account, 'yet it was of God in Heaven that he spoke,\nwho punished him on the spot by turning him into a dog.' The portrait\nwhich accompanies the story is quaint, too, having a human face, with\nwolfish, erect ears, and the rest of the body like a dog. He wore at\nthe time a fur cloak, of pale yellow with black spots, and that is\nhow the dog's fur appeared; and he had to eat carrion all his life,\nand follow his good wife about, wherever she went.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD MISER. [373]\n\n\nThey say there was once an old man who had so much money he didn't\nknow what to do with it. He had cellars and cellars, where all the\nfloors were strewn with gold; but the house was all tumbling down,\nbecause he would not spend a penny in repairing it; and for all food\nhe took nothing all day but a crust of bread and a glass of water.\n\nHe was always afraid lest some one should come to rob him of his\nwealth, so he seldom so much as spoke to anyone.\n\nOne day, however, a busy, talkative neighbour would have her say out\nwith him, and among other things she said: 'How can you go on living\nin that ugly old house all alone now? Why don't you take a wife?'\n\n'A wife!' replied the old miser; 'how can I take a wife? How am I to\nafford to keep a wife, I should like to know?'\n\n'Nonsense!' persisted the loquacious neighbour; 'you've got plenty of\nmoney, you know. And how much better you'd be if you had a wife. Do\nyou mean to tell me, now, you wouldn't be much better off with one? Now\nanswer me fairly.'\n\n'Well, if I must speak the truth, as you are so urgent for an answer,'\nreplied the old miser, 'I don't mean to say I haven't often thought\nI should like a wife; but I am waiting till I find one who can live\nupon air.' [374]\n\n'Well, maybe there might be such an one even as you say,' returned\nthe busy neighbour; 'though she might not be easy to find.' And she\nsaid no more for that day.\n\nShe went, however, to a young woman who lived opposite, and said:\n'If you want a rich husband I will find you one.'\n\n'To be sure I should like a rich husband,' replied the young woman;\n'who would not?'\n\n'Very well, then,' continued the neighbour; 'I will tell you what to\ndo. You have only, every day at dinner-time, to stand at the window\nand suck in the air, and move your lips as if you were eating. But\neat nothing; take nothing into your mouth but air. The old miser who\nlives opposite wants a wife who can live on air; and if he thinks you\ncan do this he will marry you. And when you are once installed it'll\nbe odd if you don't find means, in the midst of so much money, to\nlay hold of enough to get a dinner every day without working for it.'\n\nThe young woman thanked her friend for the advice, and next day, when\nthe bells rang at noon, she threw open the window and stood sucking\nin the air, and then moving her lips as if she was eating. This she\ndid several days.\n\nAt last the old miser came across under the window, and said to her:\n'What are you doing at the window there?'\n\n'Don't you see it's dinner-time, and I'm taking my dinner? Don't\ninterrupt me!' replied the young neighbour.\n\n'But, excuse me, [375] I don't see you are eating anything, though\nyour lips move.'\n\n'O! I live upon air; I take nothing but air,' replied the young woman;\nand she went on with her mock munching.\n\n'You live upon air, do you? Then you're just the wife I'm looking\nfor. Will you come down and marry me?'\n\nAs this was just what she wanted she did not keep him waiting, and\nsoon they were married and she was installed in the miser's house.\n\nBut it was not so easy to get at the money as she had thought. At\nfirst the miser would not let her go near his cellars; but as he\nspent so much time down there she said she could not be deprived of\nhis company for so long, she must come down too.\n\nAll the time she was down with him the miser held both her hands in\nhis, as if he was full of affection for her; but in reality it was\nto make sure she did not touch any of his money.\n\nShe, however, bought some pitch, and put it on the soles of her shoes,\nand as she walked about in the gold plenty of it stuck to her shoes;\nand when she came up again she took the gold off her shoes, and sent\nher maid to the trattoria [376] for the most delicious dinners. Shut up\nin a room apart they fared sumptuously--she and her maid. But every day\nat midday she let the miser see her taking her fancied dinner of air.\n\nThis went on for long, because the miser had so much gold that he\nnever missed the few pieces that stuck to her shoes every day.\n\nBut at last there came a Carneval Thursday, [377] when the maid had\nbrought home an extra fine dinner; and as they were an extra length\nof time over this extra number of dishes and glasses, the old miser,\nalways suspicious, began to guess there must be something wrong;\nand to find it out he instituted a scrutiny into every room in the\ncrazy house. Thus he came at last to the room where his wife and her\nmaid were dining sumptuously.\n\n'This is how you live on air, is it?' he roared, red with fury.\n\n'Oh, but on Carneval Thursday,' replied the wife, 'one may have a\nlittle extra indulgence!'\n\n'Will you tell me you have not had a private dinner every day?' shouted\nthe excited miser.\n\n'If I have,' replied the wife, not liking to tell a direct falsehood,\n'how do you know it is not with my own money? Tell me, have you missed\nany of yours?'\n\nThe miser was only the more angry at her way of putting the question,\nbecause he could not say he had actually missed the money; yet he\nwas convinced it was his money she had been spending.\n\n'How do I know it is not your money, do you ask?' he thundered;\n'because if you had had any money of your own you would never have\ncome to live here, you would not have married me.'\n\nBut weak as he was with his bread and water diet, the excitement was\ntoo much for him. As he said these words a convulsion seized him,\nand he fell down dead.\n\nThus all his riches came into possession of the wife.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MISERLY OLD WOMAN. [378]\n\n\nThere was an old woman who had three sons, and from her stinginess\nshe could not bear that anyone should have anything to eat. One day\nthe eldest son came to her and said he must take a wife.\n\n'If you must, you must,' replied the miserly mother. 'But mind she is\none who brings a great dowry, eats little, and can work all day long.'\n\nThe eldest son went his way and told the girl he was going to marry\nhis mother's hard terms. As the girl loved him very much, she made\nno objection, and he married her, and brought her home. [379]\n\nThe first morning the mother-in-law came before it was light,\nand knocked at the door, and bid the bride get up and come down to\nher work.\n\n'It is very hard for you,' said the young husband.\n\n'Ah, well! I promised to submit to it before we married,' she\nreplied. 'I won't break my promise.'\n\nSo she got up and went down and helped her mother-in-law to do the\nwork of the house. By twelve o'clock she was very hungry; but the\nmiserly mother-in-law only took out an apple and a halfpenny roll,\nand gave her half of each for all her food. She took it without a\nmurmur; and so she went on every day, working hard, and eating little,\nand making no complaint.\n\nBy-and-by the second son came and told his mother that he was going\nto take a wife. The mother made the same conditions, and the wife\nsubmitted to them with equally good grace.\n\nThen the third son came and said he too must take a wife. To him the\nold woman made the same terms; but he could not find a wife who would\nsubmit to them for his sake. The girl he wanted to marry, however,\nwas very lively and spirited, and she said at last--\n\n'Never mind the conditions; let's marry, and we'll get through the\nfuture somehow.'\n\nThen they married. When her son brought home this wife, and the old\nwoman found she had no dowry, she was in a great fury; but it was\ntoo late to help it.\n\nThe first morning, when she knocked at their door to wake her, she\ncalled out--\n\n'Who's there?' though she knew well enough.\n\nThe mother-in-law answered, 'Time to get up!'\n\n'Oibo!' exclaimed the young wife. 'Don't imagine I'm going to get\nup in the middle of the night like this! I shall get up when I\nplease, and not before.' Then she turned to her husband, and said,\n'Just for her bothering me like this I shan't get up till twelve\no'clock.' Neither did she.\n\nThe house was now filled with the old woman's lamentations. 'This\nwoman upsets everything! This woman will be the ruin of us all!' she\nkept exclaiming. But the third wife paid no heed, and dressed herself\nup smart, and amused herself, and did no work at all.\n\nWhen supper-time came the old woman took out her apple and her\nhalfpenny loaf, and cut them in four quarters, serving a bit all round.\n\n'What's that?' said the third wife, stooping to look at it, as if\nshe could not make it out, and without taking it in her hand.\n\n'It's your supper,' replied the mother-in-law.\n\n'My supper! do you think I've come to my second childhood, to be\nhelped to driblets like that!' and she filliped it to the other end\nof the room.\n\nThen she went to her husband and said--\n\n'I'll tell you what we must do; we must have false keys made, and\nget into the store-closet [380] and take what we want.'\n\nThough the mother-in-law was so miserly, there was good provision of\neverything in the store-closet; and so with the false keys she took\nflour and lard and ham, and they had plenty of everything. One day\nshe had made a delicious cake of curdled sheep's milk, [381] and she\ngave a woman a halfpenny to take it to the baker's to bake, saying--\n\n'Make haste, and bring it back, that we may get through eating it\nwhile the old woman is at mass.'\n\nShe was not quick enough, however, and the mother-in-law came in just\nabout the same time that the cake came back from the baker's. The\nthird son's wife to hide it from her caught it up and put it under\nher petticoats, but it burned her ankles, so that she was obliged to\nbring it out. Then the mother-in-law understood what had been going\non, and went into such a fury, the house could not hold her.\n\nThen the third son's wife sent the same woman to the chemist, saying,\n'get me three pauls of quicksilver.' And she took the quicksilver,\nwhen the mother-in-law was asleep, and put it into her mouth and ears,\nso that she could not storm or scold any more. But after a time she\ndied of vexation; and then they opened wide the store-room, and lived\nvery comfortably.\n\n\n\n[Here may follow a couple of stories of mixed folly and craft.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEGGAR AND THE CHICK-PEA. [382]\n\n\nThere was once a poor man who went about from door to door begging\nhis bread. He came to the cottage of a poor peasant and said: 'Give\nme something, for the love of God.'\n\nThe peasant's wife said, 'Good man, go away; I have nothing.'\n\nBut the poor man said, 'Leave me out something against I come again.'\n\nThe peasant's wife answered, 'The most I can give you is a single\nchick-pea.' [383]\n\n'Very well; that will do,' replied the poor man; 'only mind the hen\ndoesn't eat it.'\n\nThe peasant's wife was as good as her word, and put out a chick-pea\non the dresser against the beggar came by next time. While her back\nwas turned, however, the hen came in and gobbled it up. Presently\nafter the beggar came by.\n\n'Where's the chick-pea you promised me?' he asked.\n\n'Ah! I put it out for you, but the hen gobbled it up!'\n\nAt this he assumed an air of terrible authority, and said: 'Did I not\ntell you to beware lest the hen should eat it? Now, you must give me\neither the pea or the hen!'\n\nAs it was impossible for the peasant's wife now to give him the pea,\nshe was obliged to give him the hen.\n\nThe beggar, therefore, took the hen, and went to another cottage.\n\n'Good woman,' he said to the peasant's wife; 'can you be so good as\nto take care of this hen for me?'\n\n'Willingly enough!' said the peasant's wife.\n\n'Here it is then,' said the beggar; 'but mind the pig doesn't get it.'\n\n'Never fear!' said the peasant's wife; and the poor man went his way.\n\nNext day the beggar came back and claimed his hen.\n\n'Oh, dear me!' said the peasant's wife, 'while my back was turned,\nthe pig gobbled it up!'\n\nAssuming an air of terrible authority, the man said: 'Didn't I warn\nyou to beware lest the pig gobbled it up? Now, you must give me either\nthe hen or the pig.'\n\nAs the peasant's wife couldn't give him the hen, she was obliged to\ngive him the pig. So the poor man took the pig and went his way.\n\nHe came now to another cottage, and said to the peasant's wife:\n'Good woman, can you take care of this pig a little space for me?'\n\n'Willingly!' said the peasant's wife; 'put him in the yard.'\n\n'Mind the calf doesn't get at him,' said the man.\n\n'Never fear,' said the peasant's wife, and the beggar went his way.\n\nThe next day he came back and claimed his pig.\n\n'Oh, dear!' answered the peasant's wife; 'while I wasn't looking,\nthe calf got at the pig, and seized it by the throat, and killed it,\nand trampled it all to pieces.'\n\nAssuming an air of terrible authority, the beggar said: 'Did I not\nwarn you to beware lest the calf got at it? Now you must give me the\npig or the calf.'\n\nAs the poor woman could not give him the pig, she was forced to give\nhim the calf. The beggar took the calf and went away.\n\nHe went on to another cottage, and said to the peasant's wife:\n'Good woman, can you take care of this calf for me?'\n\n'Willingly!' said the peasant's wife; 'put it in the yard.'\n\nThe poor man put the calf in the yard; but he said: 'I see you have\na sick daughter there in bed; mind she doesn't desire the calf.'\n\n'Never fear!' said the peasant's wife; and the man went his way.\n\nHe was no sooner gone, however, than the sick daughter arose, and\nsaying, 'Little heart! little heart! [384] I must have you,' she went\ndown into the yard and killed the calf, and took out its heart and\nate it.\n\nThe next day the beggar man came back and claimed the calf.\n\n'Oh, dear!' said the peasant's wife, 'while I wasn't looking, my sick\ndaughter got up and killed the calf, and ate its heart.'\n\nAssuming an air of terrible authority, the beggar said: 'Did not I warn\nyou not to let the sick daughter get at the calf? Now, either calf\nor maiden I must have; make haste with your choice; calf or maiden,\none or the other!' [385]\n\nBut the poor woman could not get back the calf, seeing it was dead,\nand she was resolved not to give up her daughter. So she said: 'I\ncan't give you the calf, because it is dead. So I must give you my\ndaughter, only if I went to take her now while she's awake, she would\nmake such a fuss you would never get her along; so leave me your sack,\nthat while she's asleep I may put her in it, and then when you come\nback you can have her.'\n\nSo the beggar left his sack and went away. As soon as he was gone\nthe peasant's wife took the sack and put some stones at the bottom,\nto make it heavy, and thrust in a ferocious mad dog; then having made\nfast the mouth of the sack, she stood it up against the wall.\n\nNext day the beggar came back and asked for his sack.\n\n'There it is against the wall,' said the peasant's wife.\n\nSo the beggar put it on his shoulder and went away.\n\nAs soon as he got home, he opened the sack to take out the maiden;\nbut the ferocious mad dog rushed out upon him and killed him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDOCTOR GRILLO.\n\n\nDoctor Grillo was a physician who had made himself a great name\nthroughout his whole country, so that he was sent for and consulted\nfrom far and wide, and everybody looked up to him as a very wise man,\nwhose word was final on any question of medicine. The discovery that\n'no man is a hero to his valet' was made long before the idea so\nfound expression in the seventeenth century; Doctor Grillo had a\nman-servant who chose to entertain a very different notion of his\nmerits and powers from that of the rest of the world; and in time,\nfrom undervaluing his attainments, he came to conceive the belief\nthat he could himself do just as well as his master.\n\nOne day, when the Doctor was out, this serving-man took into his\nhead to roll up into a great bundle his doctor's gown and cap, [386]\na number of prescriptions, and a quantity of bottles, and with these\nhe stole away and betook himself to a far country, where he gave\nhimself out for the famed Doctor Grillo.\n\nJust at the time he arrived, the queen of the country was in great\nsuffering, nor could any native professor of medicine succeed in\nbenefiting her. Naturally the services of the great Doctor Grillo\nwere put in request in her behalf, as soon as his cunning servant\nhad given himself out as the owner of his world-wide reputation,\nand fortune favoured him in his two earliest attempts. Suffice it\nto say, he succeeded in satisfying her requirements by a kind of\nluck and from that day forward his fortune was made, justifying\nthe Italian saying, 'An ounce of good fortune furthers one more\nthan a pound of knowledge.' [387] Everywhere he was now called in,\nand though he prescribed his remedies all higgledypiggledy, without\nscience or experience, not more of his patients died than those of\nother mediciners. The people were, therefore, quite satisfied that\nwhen Doctor Grillo had prescribed the best had been done that human\nskill could afford.\n\nBy-and-by it came to the ears of the real Doctor Grillo that a quack\nand impostor was wearing his laurels; nor did he sooner hear the news\nthan he set out to confront him.\n\n'Beware good people! What are you doing?' was his say. 'This man\nknows no more of medicine than one of yourselves; you will all die\nif you trust to him. He is no Doctor Grillo. I am Doctor Grillo.'\n\nBut all the people laughed in his face, filled as they were with the\nprepossession of their first impressions, and they began to drive him\nout of their midst; but he protested so loudly, 'I am Doctor Grillo,'\nthat a wiseacre [388] in the crowd thought to win for himself a\nreputation for discernment by insisting that he should have a trial.\n\nIt happened that the daughter of the Chief Judge was at that time\nstricken with fever, and as he had observed in the language and manners\nof the new Doctor Grillo more traces of learning and refinement [389]\nthan in the first arrived of the name, he willingly agreed that the\ncase should be submitted to him for treatment. His wife had, however,\njust before sent for the false Doctor Grillo, so that both arrived in\nthe sick-room at the same moment; and loud and long was the dispute\nbetween husband wife, master and servant, as to which doctor should\napproach the patient. By the time the husband had carried his point,\nand the real physician entered upon his functions, the fever had got\nsuch hold of the sufferer that no medicine more availed, and the girl\nsuccumbed to the consequences of the delay in administering the most\nordinary remedies.\n\nNevertheless, it was in the hands of the real Doctor Grillo that\nshe had died. The one proof of his identity which had been granted\nhad gone against him, and the popular mind was quite satisfied that\nit was he was the impostor. As the pompous funeral of the Judge's\ndaughter brought all the circumstances to the minds of the people,\nthe feeling against him gathered and grew; and when at last one more\nmischievous and malicious than the rest proposed that he should be\ndriven out of the community, the idea met with such a ready response\nthat he would certainly not have escaped with his life from the\nyells and stone-throwing [390] of the infuriated populace, had not\nhis retreat been protected by the more peaceably disposed citizens.\n\nBut the false Doctor Grillo remained thenceforward in undisturbed\npossession of the fame and fortune attaching to the name he had\nfilched.\n\n\n\n[This is probably a filtering of one of the many stories about\nTheophrastus Paracelsus. I think there was something very like it in\na little book of popular legends about him given me at Salzburg, but\nI have not got it at hand to refer to. Zingerle, 'Sagen aus Tirol,'\np. 417, tells a story of his servant prying into the wise man's\npenetralia, and getting a worse punishment for his pains than Gehazi.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNINA.\n\n\nThere was a miller who got into difficulties, and could not pay his\nrent. The landlord sent to him a great many times to say that if he\ncould not pay his rent he must go out; but as he paid no attention to\nthe notice, the landlord went himself at last, and told him he must\ngo. The miller pleaded that his difficulties were only temporary,\nand that if he would give him but a little time he would make it\nall straight. The landlord, however, was pitiless, and said he had\nwaited long enough, and now he had come to put an end to it; adding,\n'Mind, this is my last word: If you do not go out to-night peaceably,\nI shall send some one to-morrow to turn you out by force.'\n\nAs he turned to leave, after pronouncing this sentence, he met the\nmiller's daughter coming back from the stream where she had been\nwashing. 'Who is this buxom lass?' inquired the landlord.\n\n'That is my daughter Nina,' answered the miller.\n\n'A fine girl she is too,' replied the landlord. 'And I tell you what,\nmiller, listen to me; give Nina to me, and I will not only forgive\nyou the debt, but will make over the mill and the homestead to you,\nto be your own property for ever.'\n\n'Give me a proper document to that effect, duly signed by your own\nhand,' replied the miller, with a twinkle in his eye, 'and I will\ngive you \"Nina.\"'\n\nThe landlord went back into the house, and taking two sheets of\npaper drew up first a formal quittance of the back rent, and then a\nconveyance of the mill and homestead absolutely to the miller and to\nhis heirs for ever. These he handed to the miller; and then he said,\n'To-night, an hour before sundown, I will send for \"Nina.\"'\n\n'All right,' said the miller; 'you shall have \"Nina,\"' and so they\nparted.\n\n'An hour before sundown a servant came with a carriage to fetch \"Nina\"'\n\n'Where's \"Nina\"?' said the servant. 'Master has sent me to fetch\n\"Nina.\"'\n\n'In the stable--take her!' answered the miller.\n\nIn the stable was nothing to be seen but a very lean old donkey.\n\n'There's nothing here but an old donkey,' exclaimed the servant.\n\n'All right, that's \"Nina,\" so take her,' replied the miller.\n\n'But this can't be what master meant me to fetch!' expostulated\nthe servant.\n\n'What have you got to say to it?' replied the miller. 'Your master\ntold you to fetch \"Nina;\" we always call our donkey \"Nina;\" so take\nher, and be off.'\n\nThe servant saw there was nothing to be gained by disputing, so he\ntook the donkey and went home. When he got back, his master had got\ncompany with him, so he did not know what to say about the donkey. But\nhis master seeing he was come back, took it for granted the business\nwas done; and calling him to him privately said, 'Take \"Nina\" upstairs\ninto the best bedroom and light a fire, and give her some supper.'\n\n'Take her [391] upstairs into the best bedroom!' exclaimed the man.\n\n'Yes! do what you're told, and don't repeat my words.'\n\nThe servant could not venture to say any more; so he took the donkey\nup into the best bedroom, and lit a fire, and put some supper there. As\nsoon as his company was gone, the master called the servant--\n\n'Is \"Nina\" upstairs?' asked he.\n\n'Si, Signore; she's lying before the fire,' answered the servant.\n\n'Did you take some supper up? I'll have my supper up there with\n\"Nina.\"'\n\n'Si, Signore,' replied the servant, and he turned away to laugh,\nfor he thought his master had gone mad.\n\nThe landlord went upstairs; but it had now grown dark, so he groped\nhis way to the fireplace, and there sure enough was 'Nina,' the donkey,\nlying down, and as he stroked her he said, 'What fine soft hair you've\ngot, Nina!'\n\nPresently the servant brought the lights; and when he saw the dirty\nold worn-out donkey, and understood what a trick the miller had played\noff on him, it may be imagined how furious he was.\n\nThe next day, as soon as the courts were opened, he went before the\njudge, and told all the tale. Then the miller came too, and told his;\nbut the judge examined the documents, and pronounced that the miller\nwas in the right; for his part of the contract was that he was to\ndeliver over 'Nina,' and he had delivered over 'Nina.' There was no\nevidence that any other 'Nina' was intended but 'Nina' the donkey,\nand so the miller remained in undisputed possession of the mill.\n\nAnd that is the truth, for it actually happened as I have told you.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOOD GRACE OF THE HUNCHBACK. [392]\n\n\nA mother and daughter lived alone in a cottage. The mother was old\nand came to die; the daughter was turned out of house and home. [393]\nAn ugly hunchback, who was a tailor, came by and said--\n\n'What is your name, my pretty girl?'\n\n'They call me la Buona Grazia,' [394] answered the girl.\n\n'Well, la Buona Grazia, I've got twenty scudi a month, will you come\nwith me and be my wife?'\n\nThe girl was starving, and didn't know where to set her foot, so\nshe thought she could not afford to refuse; but she went along with\na very bad grace, for she did not feel at all happy at the idea of\nmarrying the ugly old hunchback.\n\nWhen the hunchback saw how unhappy she was, he thought, 'This will\nnever do. She's too young and too pretty to care for me. I must keep\nher locked up, and then when she sees no one else at all, she will at\nlast be glad even of my company.' So he went all the errands himself,\nand never let her go out except to Mass, and then he took her to the\nchurch, and watched her all the time, and brought her back himself. The\nwindows he whitened all over, so that she couldn't see out into the\nstreet, and there he kept her with the door locked on her, and she\nwas very miserable.\n\nSo it went on for three years. But there was a dirty little window\nof a lumber room which, as it only gave a look out on to the court,\n[395] he had not whitened. As she happened to look out here one day\na stranger stood leaning on the balcony of the court, for part of\nthe house was an inn, and he had just arrived.\n\n'What are you looking for, my pretty girl?' said the stranger.\n\n'O! nothing particular; only I'm locked up here, and I just looked\nout for a change.'\n\n'Locked up! who has locked you up?' asked the stranger.\n\n'An old hunchback, who's going to marry me,' said the girl, almost\ncrying.\n\n'You don't seem much pleased at the idea of being married,' answered\nthe stranger.\n\n'It is not likely that I should, to such a husband!' returned the girl.\n\n'Would you like to get away from him?' asked the stranger.\n\n'Shouldn't I!' heartily exclaimed the girl; 'but it's impossible to\nmanage that, as I'm locked in,' she added sorrowfully.\n\n'It's not so difficult as you think,' rejoined the stranger. 'Most\nlikely there's some picture or other on your wall.'\n\n'Oh, yes! a great big one with the fair Giuditta just ready with her\npouch [396] to put Lofferno's head in,' answered the girl.\n\n'All right. You make a big hole behind the picture on your side, and\nwhen I hear by the sound where you are, I'll make one on mine. And\nwhen our two holes meet, you can come through.'\n\n'Yes, that's a capital plan; but the hunchback will soon come\nafter me.'\n\n'Never mind, I will see to that; let's make the hole first?'\n\n'Very well, I rely upon you, and will set to work immediately.'\n\n'Tell me first how I am to call you?'\n\n'They always call me Buona Grazia.'\n\n'A very nice name. Good-bye, and we'll set to work.'\n\nLa Buona Grazia ran and unhooked the picture, and set to work to make\na hole with all the available tools she could find; and the stranger,\nas soon as he had ascertained by the noise where she was at work,\nset to also. It turned out to be only a partition, [397] and not a\nregular wall, and the hole was soon cut.\n\n'What fun!' said the girl, as she jumped through. 'Oh, how nice to be\nfree! But,' she added, 'I can't travel with you in these poor clothes.'\n\n'No,' said the stranger. 'I'll have a travelling dress made for you,\nby the hunchback himself.'\n\n'Oh, take care!' cried the girl, earnestly.\n\n'Don't be afraid,' answered the stranger; 'and above all don't look\nfrightened.'\n\nThen he sent his servant to call the hunchback, and when he came\nhe said--\n\n'I want a travelling dress made directly for my wife here, so please\ntake her measure.'\n\nThe hunchback started when he saw who it was he had to measure.\n\n'Why, she's exactly like my Buona Grazia!' exclaimed he.\n\n'Very likely. I have always observed there was a sort of likeness\nbetween the inhabitants of a town. She too is a Roman, though I am\na stranger. But make haste and take the measure, I didn't call you\nhere to make remarks.'\n\nThe hunchback got frightened at the stranger's authoritative tone,\nand took the measure without saying any more; and the stranger then\ngave him something to go and have a breakfast at the caff\u00e9 to give\nthe girl time to get back and set the picture in its place again.\n\nWhen he came up into the room all looked right, and nothing seemed\nto have been moved.\n\n'I've got to work hard to-day,' said the hunchback, 'to get a\ntravelling dress ready for the wife of a gentleman staying in the inn,\nwho is exactly like you.'\n\n'Are they going to travel, then?' asked la Buona Grazia.\n\n'Yes, the gentleman said they should start as soon as the dress\nis done.'\n\n'Oh, do let me see them drive off!' said la Buona Grazia, coaxingly. 'I\nshould so like to see a lady who looked like me wearing a dress you\nhad made.'\n\n'Nonsense, nonsense!' said the hunchback; 'get on with your work.'\n\nAnd she did get on with her work, and stitched away, for she was\nanxious enough to help him to get the dress done; but she went on\nteazing him all the while to let her go to the window to see the\ngentleman and the lady, 'who looked so like her,' drive off, that at\nlast the hunchback consented for that only day to take the whiting\noff the windows and let her look out.\n\nThe travelling dress was finished and taken home; and while the\nhunchback was taking it up by the stairs, la Bella Grazia was getting\nin by the hole behind the picture; but she had first made a great\ndoll, [398] and dressed it just like herself, and stuck it in the\nwindow. The gobbo, who stood down below to see the gentry drive off,\nlooked up and saw her, as he thought, at the window, and made signs\nfor her not to stay there too long.\n\nPresently the stranger and his lady came down; the hunchback was\nstanding before the carriage door, as I have said, and two stablemen\nwere standing by also.\n\n'You give me your good grace?' [399] asked the stranger.\n\n'Yes, yes!' readily responded the hunchback, delighted to find a rich\ngentleman so civil to him.\n\n'You say it sincerely, with all your heart?' again asked the stranger.\n\n'Yes, yes, yes! with all my heart,' answered the hunchback.\n\n'Then give me your hand upon it.'\n\nAnd the hunchback, more and more delighted, put out his hand, the\ntwo stablemen standing by looking on attentively all the time.\n\nAs soon as the carriage had driven away, the hunchback's first care\nwas to look up at the window to see if the girl had gone in; but the\ndoll was still there.\n\n'Go in! go in!' he cried, waving his hand. But the figure remained\nunmoved. Indignant, he took a stick and ran up to punish the girl\nfor her disobedience, and when the blows fell thick and fast and no\ncries came, he discovered the trick that had been played.\n\nWithout loss of time he ran off to the Court and laid a complaint\nbefore the judge, demanding that soldiers should be called out\nand sent after the fugitives; but the stablemen had their orders,\nand were there before him, and deposed that they were witnesses to\nhis having given 'his Good Grace' up to the gentleman 'with all his\nheart,' and given him his hand upon the bargain.\n\n'You see you have given her up of your own accord; there is nothing\nto be done!' said the judge. So he got no redress.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE VALUE OF SALT.\n\n\nThey say there was a king who had three daughters. He was very anxious\nto know which of them loved him most; he tried them in various ways,\nand it always seemed as if the youngest daughter came out best by\nthe test. Yet he was never satisfied, because he was prepossessed\nwith the idea that the elder ones loved him most.\n\nOne day he thought he would settle the matter once for all, by asking\neach separately how much she loved him. So he called the eldest by\nherself, and asked her how much she loved him.\n\n'As much as the bread we eat,' ran her reply; and he said within\nhimself, 'She must, as I thought, love me the most of all; for bread\nis the first necessary of our existence, without which we cannot\nlive. She means, therefore, that she loves me so much she could not\nlive without me.'\n\nThen he called the second daughter by herself, and said to her,\n'How much do you love me?'\n\nAnd she answered, 'As much as wine!'\n\n'That is a good answer too,' said the king to himself. 'It is true\nshe does not seem to love me quite so much as the eldest; but still,\nscarcely can one live without wine, [400] so that there is not much\ndifference.'\n\nThen he called the youngest by herself, and said to her, 'And you,\nhow much do you love me?'\n\nAnd she answered, 'As much as salt!'\n\nThen the king said, 'What a contemptible comparison! She only loves me\nas much as the cheapest and commonest thing that comes to table. This\nis as much as to say, she doesn't love me at all. I always thought\nit was so. I will never see her again.'\n\nThen he ordered that a wing of the palace should be shut up from\nthe rest, where she should be served with everything belonging to\nher condition in life, but where she should live by herself apart,\nand never come near him.\n\nHere she lived, then, all alone. But though her father fancied she\ndid not care for him, she pined so much at being kept away from him,\nthat at last she was worn out, [401] and could bear it no longer.\n\nThe room that had been given her had no windows on to the street,\nthat she might not have the amusement of seeing what was going on in\nthe town, but they looked upon an inner court-yard. Here she sometimes\nsaw the cook come out and wash vegetables at the fountain.\n\n'Cook! cook!' she called one day, as she saw him pass thus under\nthe window.\n\nThe cook looked up with a good-natured face, which gave her\nencouragement.\n\n'Don't you think, cook, I must be very lonely and miserable up here\nall alone?'\n\n'Yes, Signorina!' he replied; 'I often think I should like to help you\nto get out; but I dare not think of it, the king would be so angry.'\n\n'No, I don't want you to do anything to disobey the king,' answered\nthe princess; 'but would you really do me a favour, which would make\nme very grateful indeed?'\n\n'O! yes, Signorina, anything which I can do without disobeying the\nking,' replied the faithful servant.\n\n'Then this is it,' said the princess. 'Will you just oblige me so far\nas to cook papa's dinner to-day without any salt in anything? Not the\nleast grain in anything at all. Let it be as good a dinner as you like,\nbut no salt in anything. Will you do that?'\n\n'I see!' replied the cook, with a knowing nod. 'Yes, depend on me,\nI will do it.'\n\nThat day at dinner the king had no salt in the soup, no salt in the\nboiled meat, no salt in the roast, no salt in the fried.\n\n'What is the meaning of this?' said the king, as he pushed dish after\ndish away from him. 'There is not a single thing I can eat to-day. I\ndon't know what they have done to everything, but there is not a\nsingle thing that has got the least taste. Let the cook be called.'\n\nSo the cook came before him.\n\n'What have you done to the victuals to-day?' said the king,\nsternly. 'You have sent up a lot of dishes, and no one alive can tell\none from another. They are all of them exactly alike, and there is\nnot one of them can be eaten. Speak!'\n\nThe cook answered:\n\n'Hearing your Majesty say that salt was the commonest thing that comes\nto table, and altogether so worthless and contemptible, I considered\nin my mind whether it was a thing that at all deserved to be served\nup to the table of the king; and judging that it was not worthy,\nI abolished it from the king's kitchen, and dressed all the meats\nwithout it. Barring this, the dishes are the same that are sent every\nday to the table of the king.'\n\nThen the king understood the value of salt, and he comprehended how\ngreat was the love of his youngest child for him; so he sent and had\nher apartment opened, and called her to him, never to go away any more.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINCESS AND THE GENTLEMAN.\n\n\nThere was a princess whose mother had died of vexation because she\nwas in love with a simple gentleman of the chamber, and would not\nhear of marrying anyone else, nor would she look at any prince who\ncame to sue for her hand.\n\nThe king, not only vexed at her perversity, but still more at the loss\nof his wife, determined to devise a punishment to cure them both. He\nhad two suites of apartments walled up, therefore; in one he had the\nprincess imprisoned, and in the other the gentleman of the chamber with\nwhom she was in love. The latter, he commanded, should see no one,\nthinking thereby to weary him out; the former he allowed only to see\nsuch persons as he should appoint, these persons being the princes one\nor other of whom he wished her to marry; for he thought that in her\nweariness at being so shut up, she would welcome the hand of anyone who\nwould be her deliverer. It was not so, however. When the cook came in\nto the princess with her dinner, she begged him to give her a chicken\nthat had been killed several days, and kept till it had a bad smell.\n\nWhen her father now sent any prince to visit her she said, 'It is no\nuse my father sending you here, the reason why I cannot marry anyone\nis that I have a great defect; my breath smells so bad that it is\nnot pleasant for anyone to live with me.'\n\nAs the bad smell from the chicken was readily to be perceived in the\nroom, they all believed her words and went away. There was one, indeed,\nwho was so much pleased with her seeming candour that he thought he\nwould excuse her defect, but on a second visit the smell of the dead\nchicken drove him away too.\n\nThe cooks in the kitchen talked together after the manner of cooks,\nand thus the cook who waited on the princess told what had happened\nto the cook who waited on the other prisoner, and thus it came round\nto his ears also, what the princess had done for love of him. Her\nstratagem then suggested another to him. Accordingly he sent to crave\nurgently an audience of the king.\n\nWhen the king came in to him he said:\n\n'Sire, closely as I have been confined and guarded, yet something of\nwhat goes on in the outer world has reached my ears, and the fact which\nhas the greatest interest for me has naturally been told to me. I now\nlearn that the reason why your daughter has refused the suit of all the\nprinces is not as we thought, her love for me, but a certain personal\ndefect, which in politeness I will not name more particularly. But\nthat being so, my desire to marry her is, of course, cured like that\nof others; so if your majesty will give me my liberty I will go away\nto a far country, and your majesty would never hear of me any more.'\n\nThe king was delighted to get rid of him, for he believed that if he\nwere at a distance the great obstacle to his daughter's happiness\nwould be removed. As he knew nothing about the chicken, he thought\nthat all the suitors had believed the princess's representations\nupon her simple word; and as he very well knew she had no defect,\nhe thought the time would come when some prince should please her,\nwhom she also should please. Therefore, he very willingly gave the\ngentleman his liberty, and bid him godspeed on his journey.\n\nThe gentleman, however, before setting out, went to his friend the\ncook, and, giving him three hundred scudi, begged him to house him\nfor a few nights, while he dug out an underground passage between\nthe garden and the apartment where the princess was imprisoned.\n\nIn the garden was a handsome terrace, all set out with life-sized\nstatues; under one of these the gentleman worked his way, till he\nhad reached the princess's chamber.\n\n'You here!' exclaimed the princess in great astonishment, as soon as\nhe had made his way through.\n\n'Yes; I have come to fetch you,' he replied.\n\nShe did not wait for a second injunction to escape from prison, but\ngathering all the money and jewels she had at command, she followed\nhim through the underground way he had made.\n\nAs soon as they had reached the free air, the gentleman replaced the\nstatue, and no one could guess by which way they had passed. Then\nthey went to a church to be married, and, after that, to a city a\nlong way off, as the gentleman had promised the king he would.\n\nFor a long time they lived very happily on the money and jewels\neach had brought from home; but, by-and-by, these came to an end,\nand neither durst write for more, for fear of betraying where they\nwere. So at last, having no means of living, they engaged themselves\nto a rich lady who had a large mansion; [402] the one as butler, [403]\nand the other as nurse. [404] Here they were well content to live at\npeace; and the lady was well content to have two such faithful and\nintelligent dependents, and they might have lived here till the end of\ntheir lives, but for a coincidence [405] which strangely disconcerted\nthem, as you shall hear, as well as what came of it.\n\nOne day there came to visit the lady, their mistress, a nobleman\nbelonging to the king's court. At dinner time the princess had to come\nto table along with the little daughter of the house, of whom she had\nthe charge. Great was her terror when she recognised in the guest of\nthe day one so familiar to herself and so near the sovereign. In\nconformity with the lowliness of the station she had assumed,\nshe could escape actually talking to him, and she did her best to\nwithdraw herself from his notice. She half hoped she had succeeded,\nwhen suddenly the butler had to come into the room to communicate\nan important despatch which had just arrived, to the mistress of\nthe house. The princess could not restrain an anxious glance at the\nstranger, to see if he betrayed any sign of recognition; but he was\nused to courts, and therefore to dissemble; nor could she satisfy\nherself that he had discovered either of them. It was so likely\nthat he should, however, that she was filled with fear, and he was\nno sooner gone than she held a long consultation with her husband as\nto what course they should pursue.\n\nIn the end, the difficulty of finding other employment decided them\nto remain, for the probability that they would be tracked seemed\nremote. After all, they reasoned, was it likely that the nobleman\nshould think it worth while to observe two persons occupying such\nhumble posts with sufficient attention to see who they were or who\nthey were not?\n\nThe king meantime had been searching everywhere for his daughter, not\nbeing able by any means to divine how she could have escaped. Then\none morning, all this time after, the nobleman comes down upon him\nwith the news:\n\n'I have found the princess. She is living as nurse to the Duchessa\nsuch a one, and her husband is the butler.'\n\nThe king could not rest a moment after he had heard the news; his\ntravelling carriage was ordered round, and away he drove. It was\njust dinner-time when he arrived at the Duchessa's palace. If the\nprincess had been terrified before, at being called to sit at table\nwith a nobleman of the court, judge how much greater was her alarm\nwhen she saw her father himself seated at the board!\n\nGreat as had been his indignation, however, the joy of again meeting\nhis child after the long separation blotted out all his anger,\nand after embracing her tenderly, he placed her by his side at the\ntable. It was only when he came to take leave, and realised that she\nreally belonged to another that his ire broke forth again. At this\npoint the Duchessa put in a word. She highly extolled the excellent\nqualities of her butler, and declared he had been so skilful in the\nadministration of her affairs, that he deserved to have a kingdom\ncommitted to him. In short, she softened the king's heart so completely\nthat she brought him to own that, as he had now grown very old and\nfeeble, he could not do better than recognise him for his son-in-law,\nand associate him with himself in the government.\n\nAnd so he did, [406] and they all lived happily.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAPPY COUPLE. [407]\n\n\nI can tell you a story, [408] or two perhaps. What a number I used\nto know, to be sure! But what can I do? It is thirty years and more\nsince anyone has asked me for them, and it's hard to put one's ideas\ntogether after such a time. You mustn't mind if I put the wrong part\nof the story before, and have to go backwards and forwards a little.\n\nI know there was one that ran thus:--\n\nThere was a married couple who lived so happy and content and fond\nof each other, that they never had a word of dispute about anything\nthe live-long day, but only thought of helping and pleasing each other.\n\nThe Devil saw this, and determined to set them by the ears; but how\nwas he to do it? Such love and peace reigned in their home, that he\ncouldn't find any way into the place. After prowling and prowling\nabout, and finding no means of entrance, what does he do? He went to\nan old woman,--she must have been one of those who dabble with things\nthey have no business to touch,--and said to her:\n\n'You must do this job for me!'\n\n'That's no great matter,' answered the old hag. [409] 'Give me ten\nscudi for my niece and a new pair of shoes for me, and I'll settle\nthe matter.'\n\n'Here are the ten scudi,' said the Devil; 'it will be time enough to\ntalk about the shoes when we see how you do the business.'\n\nThe bad old woman set off accordingly with her niece and the ten scudi,\ninstructing her by the way what she was to do.\n\nThis husband and wife lived in a place where there was a house on one\nside and a shop on the other, so that through a window in the house\nwhere they lived they could give an eye to anything that went on in\nthe shop.\n\nChoosing a moment when the man was alone in the shop, she sent the girl\nin with the ten scudi; and the girl, who had been told what to do,\nselected a dress, and a handkerchief, and a number of fine things,\nand paid her ten scudi. Then she proceeded leisurely to put them on,\nand to walk up and down the shop in them. Meantime the bad old woman\nwent up to the wife:--\n\n'Poor woman!' she said. 'Poor woman! Such a good woman as you are,\nand to have such a hypocrite of a husband!'\n\n'My husband a hypocrite!' answered the wife. 'What can you mean--he\nis the best man that ever was.'\n\n'Ah! he makes you think so, poor simple soul. But the truth is,\nhe is very different from what you think.'\n\nSo they went on conversing, and the bad old woman all the time watching\nwhat was going on in the shop till the right moment came. Just as\nthe girl was flaunting about and showing herself off, she said:\n\n'Look here, he has given all those things to that girl there.'\n\nAnd though the wife did not believe a word, curiosity prompted her\nto look, and there she saw the girl bowing herself out with as many\nthanks and adieus as if the poor man had really given her the things\nshe had bought.\n\n'Perhaps you will believe that!' observed the bad old woman.\n\n'Indeed, I cannot help believing it,' answered the wife, 'but never\notherwise should I have thought it; and I owe you a great deal for\nopening my eyes;' and she gave her a whole cheese. [410] 'I know what\nI shall do,' she continued, as she sobbed over her lost peace of mind;\n'I shall show him I know his bad conduct by having no dinner ready\nfor him when he comes up by-and-by.'\n\n'That's right,' said the bad old woman. 'Do so, and show him you are\nnot going to be trampled on for the sake of a drab of a girl like\nthat;' and she tied her cheese up in a handkerchief, and went her way.\n\nDown she went now to the husband, and plied him with suspicions of\nhis wife, similar to those she had suggested to her against him. The\nhusband was even less willing to listen to her than the wife had been,\nand when at last he drove her away, she said:\n\n'You think she's busy all the morning preparing your dinner; but\ninstead of that, she's talking to those you wouldn't like her to talk\nwith. And you see now if to-day she hasn't been at this game so long\nthat she has forgotten your dinner altogether.'\n\nThe husband turned a deaf ear, and continued attending to his shop;\nbut when he went into the house and found no dinner ready, it seemed\nas if all that the bad old woman had said was come true.\n\nHe was too sad for words, so they didn't have much of a quarrel,\nbut there could not but be a coldness after such an extraordinary\nevent as a day without dinner.\n\nThe husband went back to his shop and mused. The wife sat alone in\nher room crying; presently the old hag came back to her.\n\n'Well, did you tell him you had found him out?' she inquired.\n\n'No! I hadn't courage to do that. And he was so patient about there\nbeing no dinner, that I felt quite sorry to have suspected him. Oh,\nyou who have been so clever in pointing out my misery to me, can you\nnot tell me some means of reconciliation?'\n\n'Yes, there is one; but I don't know if you can manage it.'\n\n'Oh yes; I would do anything!'\n\n'Then you must watch till he is quite sound asleep, and take a sharp\nrazor and cut off three hairs from the undergrowth of his beard,\nquite close to the skin. If you do that it will all come right again.'\n\n'It seems a very odd remedy,' said the wife; 'but if you say it will\ndo, I suppose it will, and thank you kindly for the advice;' and she\ngave her another cheese.\n\nThen the witch went back to the husband.\n\n'I suppose I was mistaken, and you found your dinner ready after\nall?' she said.\n\n'No!' he replied; 'you were right about there being no dinner; but\nI am certain there was some cause for there being none, other than\nwhat you say.'\n\n'What other cause should there be?' exclaimed the old woman.\n\n'That I don't know,' he replied. 'But some other cause I am persuaded\nthere must have been.'\n\n'Well, if you are so infatuated, I will give you another token that I\nam right,' replied the old woman. 'You don't deserve that I should save\nyour life, but I am so goodnatured, I can't help warning you. To-night,\nI have reason to know, she intends to murder you. You just give some\nmake-believe snoring, but mind you don't sleep, whatever you do;\nand you see if she doesn't take up one of your razors to stab you in\nthe throat.'\n\nThe good husband refused to believe a word, and drove her\naway. Nevertheless, when night came he felt not a little anxious;\nand if he had tried to sleep ever so much he could not, for he felt\nso excited. Then curiosity to see if the woman's words would come\ntrue overcame him, and he pretended to snore.\n\nHe had not been snoring thus long, when the wife took up the razor\nand came all trembling to the bedside, and lifted up his beard.\n\nA cold sweat crept over the poor husband as she approached--not for\nfear of his life, which he could easily rescue, as he was awake--but\nbecause the proof seemed there that the old hag had spoken the\ntruth. However, instead of taking it for granted it was so, and\nrefusing to hear any justification--perhaps killing her on the spot,\nas she had hoped and expected,--he calmly seized her arm, and said:\n\n'Tell me, what are you going to do with that razor?'\n\nThe wife sank on her knees by his side, crying:\n\n'I cannot expect you to believe me, but this is really how it was. An\nold woman came and told me you were making love to a young girl in the\nshop, and showed me how she was bowing and scraping to you. I was so\nvexed, that to show you my anger I got no dinner ready; but afterwards,\nI felt as if I should like to ask you all about it, to make sure there\nwas no mistake: only after what I had done, I didn't know how to begin\nspeaking to you again. Then I asked the old woman if she couldn't\ntell me some means of bringing things straight again; and she said,\nif I could cut off three hairs from the undergrowth of your beard,\nall would come right. But I can't expect you to believe it.'\n\n'Yes, I do,' replied the husband. 'The same old wretch came to me,\nand wanted me in like manner to believe all manner of evil things\nof you, but I refused to believe you could do anything wrong. So I\nhad more confidence in you than you had in me. But still we were\nboth very nearly making ourselves very foolish and very unhappy;\nso we will take a lesson never to doubt each other again.'\n\nAnd after that there never was a word between them any more.\n\nWhen the Devil saw how the old woman had spoilt the affair, he took\nthe pair of shoes he was to have given her, and tied them on to a\nlong cane which he fastened on the top of a mountain, and there they\ndangled before her eyes, but she could never get at them.\n\n\n\n[This is just the Siddi K\u00fcr story of the mischief-making fox, which\nI have given as 'The Perfidious Friend' in 'Sagas from the Far East,'\nand similar to the first Pantcha Tantra story.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWHAT HAPPENED IN THE ROOM OF A HOTEL. [411]\n\n\nThey say there was a countess who was very fond of her husband, and\nher husband was very fond of her; and they vowed nothing should ever\nmake the one think ill of the other.\n\nOne day the brother of the countess, who had been long away at the\nwars, and whom the count had never seen, came back to see her just\nwhile the count was out.\n\n'Now we'll have some fun,' said the countess. 'We'll watch till my\nhusband is coming home, and then as he comes into the room you just\nbe kissing me; he will be so astonished to see a stranger kissing me,\nhe will not know what to make of it. Then in five minutes we will\ntell him who you really are, and it will make a good laugh.'\n\nThe brother thought it would be a good joke, and they did as she\nhad said.\n\nIt happened, however, that by accident [412] the count did not that\nday as usual come into his wife's room, but passing along the terrace\nin front of it, he saw, as she had arranged, one who was a stranger\nto him kissing her.\n\nThen he went into his room, and calling his confidential servant\n[413] he told him what had happened, and adding, 'You will never see\nme any more,' went his way.\n\nThe countess waited on and on for her husband to come in, full of\nimpatience to have her joke out. But when she found he did not come\nat all, she went into his room to seek him there. There she found\nthe servant, who told her what the Count had said, and the desperate\nresolution he had taken.\n\n'What have I done!' exclaimed the terrified Countess. 'Is it possible\nthat I am to be punished thus for a harmless joke!'\n\nThen, without saying anything to anyone she wrapped her travelling\ncloak about her, and set out to seek her husband.\n\nThe Count had walked on till he could walk no farther, and then he\nhad gone into an inn, where he hired a room for a week; but he went\nwandering about the woods in misery and despair, and only came in at\nan hour of night. [414]\n\nThe Countess also walked on till she could walk no farther, and thus\nshe came to the same inn; but as she had only a woman's strength the\nsame journey took her a much longer time, and it was the afternoon\nof the next day when she arrived. She too asked for a room, but the\nhost assured her with many expressions of regret, that he had not\na single room vacant. The Countess pleaded her weariness; the man\nreiterated his inability to serve her.\n\n'Give me only a room to rest a little while in,' she begged; 'just\na couple of hours, and then I will start again and journey farther.'\n\nReally compassionating her in her fatigue, the man now said:\n\n'If you will be satisfied with that much, I can give you a room for\na couple of hours; but no more.'\n\nShe was fain to be satisfied with that, as she could get no more,\nand the host showed her into her husband's room, which he would not\nwant till 'an hour of night.'\n\nBy accident, however, the Count came in that night an hour earlier, and\nvery much surprised he was to find a lady in his room. The Countess,\nequally surprised to see a stranger enter, pulled her veil over her\nface, so that they did not recognise each other.\n\n'I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but this room, I must inform you,\nI have engaged,' said the count; but sorrow had so altered his voice\nthat the countess did not know it again.\n\n'I hope you will spare me,' replied the Countess. 'They gave me this\nroom to rest in for two hours, and I have come so long a way that I\nreally need the rest.'\n\n'I can hardly believe that a lady of gentle condition can have come\na very long way, all alone and on foot, for there is no carriage in\nthe yard; so I can only consider this a frivolous pretext,' replied\nthe Count, for sorrow had embittered him.\n\n'Indeed it is too true though,' continued the Countess. 'I came\nall the way from such a place (and she named his own town) without\nstopping for one moment's rest.'\n\n'Indeed!' said the Count, his interest roused at the mention of his\nown town; 'and pray what need had you to use such haste to get away\nfrom that good town?'\n\n'I had no need to haste to leave the place,' replied the Countess,\nhurt at the implied suspicion that she was running away for shame. 'I\nhasted to arrive at another place.'\n\n'And that other place was ----?' persisted the Count, who felt that\nher intrusion on his privacy gave him a right to cross-question her.\n\nThe Countess was puzzled how to reply. She had no idea what place\nshe was making for.\n\n'That I don't know,' she said at last, with no little embarrassment.\n\n'You will permit me to say that you seem to have no adequate reason to\nallege for this unwarrantable occupation of my room; and what little\nyou tell me certainly in no way inclines me to take a favourable view\nof the affair.'\n\nThe Countess was once more stung by the manner in which he seemed to\nview her journey, and feeling bound to clear herself, she replied:\n\n'If you only knew what my journey is about, you would not speak\nso!' and she burst into a flood of tears.\n\nSoftened by her distress, the Count said in a kinder tone:\n\n'Had you been pleased to confide that to me at first, maybe I had not\nspoken so; but till you tell me what it is, what opinion can I form?'\n\n'This is it,' answered the Countess, still sobbing. 'Yesterday I\nwas the happiest woman on the face of the earth, living in love and\nconfidence with the best husband with whom woman was ever blessed. So\nstrong was my confidence that I hesitated not to trifle with this\ngreat happiness. My brother came home from the wars, a stranger\nto my husband. \"Let him see you kiss me,\" I said, \"it will seem so\nstrange that we will make him laugh heartily afterwards.\" He saw him\nkiss me, but waited for no explanation. He went away without a word,\nas indeed (fool that I was) I well deserved, and I journey on till\nI overtake him.'\n\nThe Count had risen to his feet, and had torn the veil from her face.\n\n'It can be no other but my own!' he exclaimed, in a voice from which\nsorrow being banished his own tones sounded forth, and clasped her\nin his arms.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE COUNTESS'S CAT. [415]\n\n\nThere was a very rich Countess who was a widow and lived all alone,\nwith no companion but only a cat, after her husband died. The greatest\ncare was taken of this cat, and every day a chicken was boiled on\npurpose for him.\n\nOne day the Countessa went out to spend the day at a friend's villa\nin the Campagna, and she said to the waiting woman:\n\n'Mind the cat has his chicken just the same as if I were at home.'\n\n'Yes! Signora Countessa, leave that to me,' answered the woman; but\nthe Countess was no sooner gone out than she said to the man-servant:\n\n'The cat has the chicken every day; suppose we have it to-day?'\n\nThe man said, 'To be sure!' and they ate the chicken themselves,\ngiving the cat only the inside; but they threw the bones down in the\nusual corner, to make it appear as if he had eaten the whole chicken.\n\nThe cat said nothing, but looked on with great eyes, full of\nmeaning. [416]\n\nWhen the Countess came back that evening the cat, instead of going\nout to meet her as he always did, remained still in his place and\nsaid nothing.\n\n'What's the matter with the cat? Hasn't he had his chicken?' asked\nthe Countess, immediately.\n\n'Yes! Signora Countessa,' answered the cameriera. 'See, there are\nthe bones on the floor, where he always leaves them.'\n\nThe Countessa could not deny the testimony of her eyes, so she said\nnothing more but went up to bed.\n\nThe cat followed her as he always did, for he slept on her bed; but\nhe followed at a distance, without purring or rubbing himself against\nher. The Countess saw something was wrong, but she didn't know what\nto make of it, and went to bed as usual.\n\nThat night the cat throttled [417] the Countess, and killed her.\n\nThe cat is very intelligent in his own interest, but he is a traitor.\n\n'It would have been more intelligent,' I observed, 'if he had throttled\nthe waiting woman in this instance.'\n\nNot at all; the cat's reasoning was this:--If thou hadst not gone\nout and left me to the mercy of menials, this had not happened;\ntherefore it was thou who hadst to die.\n\nThis is quite true, for cats are always traitors. Dogs are faithful,\ncats are traitors. [418]\n\n\n\n[Perhaps this tale would have been hardly worth printing, but that\nthe selfsame story was told me as a positive fact by an Irishman, who\ncould not have come across the Italian story. In the Irish version\nit was its master the cat killed; in the wording of the narrator he\n'cut his throat.']\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWHY CATS AND DOGS ALWAYS QUARREL. [419]\n\n\n'Why do dogs and cats always fight, papa?' we used to say.\n\nAnd he used to answer, 'I'll tell you why;' and we all stood round\nlistening.\n\n'Once on a time dogs and cats were very good friends, and when the\ndogs went out of town they left their cards on the cats, and when\nthe cats went out of town they left their cards on the dogs.'\n\nAnd we all sat round and listened and laughed.\n\n'Once the dogs all went out of town and left their cards as usual\non the cats; but they were a long time gone, for they were gone on\na rat-hunt, and killed all the rats. When the cats heard that the\ndogs had taken to killing rats, they were furious against the dogs,\nand lay in wait for them and set upon them.\n\n'\"Set upon the dogs! at them! give it them!\"' [420] shouted the cats,\nas they flew at them; and from that time to this, dogs and cats never\nmeet without fighting.\n\nAnd we all stood round and laughed fit to split our sides.\n\n\n\n[Scheible, Schaltjahr I., 375, gives a more humorous version of this.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATS WHO MADE THEIR MASTER RICH.\n\n\n'Ah! as to cats and mice, listen and I'll tell you something worth\nhearing!\n\n'In America, once upon a time, there were no cats. Mice there were\nin plenty; mice everywhere; not peeping out of holes now and then,\nbut infesting everything, swarming over every room; and when a family\nsat down to meals, the mice rushed upon the table and disputed the\nvictuals with them.\n\n'Then one thought of a plan; he freighted three ships; full, full\nof cats, and off to America with them. There he sold them for their\nweight in gold and more, and whiff! the mice were swept away, and he\nmade a great fortune. A great fortune, all out of cats!'\n\n\n\n[In the 'Russian Folktales' is also a version of the Whittington story,\np. 43.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDICES.\n\n\nAPPENDIX A. p. xx.\n\nI have done injustice to the part assigned to the horse in French\nlegendary tales by omitting mention of it in this place. Charles\nLouandre ('Chefs-d'oeuvre des conteurs Fran\u00e7ais,' Paris, 1873, note\nto pp. 43-4) calls special attention to it and gives us the name of\nmany horses famous in the old French minstrelsy. There was 'Valentin,'\nthe horse of Roland; 'Tencedor, of Charlemagne;' 'Barbamouche, swifter\nthan the swallow;' and many others. But there is no name to the charger\nin the graceful 'Lai de Gra\u00e9lent,' by Marie de France, whose fidelity\nis the occasion of his Note. I ought not to have forgotten either,\nthe honours paid him in the Spanish Romances, of which the brave\n'Black Charger of Hernando' ('Patra\u00f1as') may serve as the type.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX B.\n\nMy attention has been called, while these sheets have been passing\nthrough the press, to a collection which enables me to subjoin some\nnotes of analogies between the Folktales of France and those in the\ntext. It is entitled 'Recueil des Contes des F\u00e9es,' Geneva, 1718;\npublished without author's name, and the stories are much less\nartificially treated than in the better known collections of the\nComtesse d'Aulnoy, de Caylus, Perrault, Madame de Villeneuve, &c.\n\nMonteil ('Trait\u00e9 de Mat\u00e9riaux-Manuscrits,' Paris, 1835) mentions a\nMS. in his possession, of the year 1618, entitled 'Contes des F\u00e9es,'\nfrom which Perrault, the least artificial of the French collectors,\nseems to have drawn his tales. Mayer ('Discours sur l'Origine des\nContes des F\u00e9es,' Geneva and Paris, 1786) ascribes to him the revival\nof the knowledge of the existence of popular fairy tales and medi\u00e6val\nromances, and many of our own Nursery Rimes (notably 'Puss in Boots')\nare simply translated from his versions.\n\n'Prince Rainbow' ('Le Prince Arc-en-Ciel'), the fifth story in the\n'Recueil,' contains similar incidents with those in 'Filagranata,'\nin combination with the introduction of the opening of a nut in\nplace of one of the oranges in my next story. (I have another Roman\nstory in MS. which hinges on the opening of three nuts in the place\nof three oranges.) In the French story the ire of the bad fairy is\nexcited against the princess who holds the place of Filagranata, by her\nreceiving the name of 'Fairer-than-Fairies' ('Plus-belle-que-F\u00e9e'). The\nbad fairy Lagr\u00e9e, who is so old that she has only one tooth and\none eye, carries her off to an underground palace, where her task\nis to tend a fire, instead of feeding pigeons. Here she is courted\nby a prince transformed into a rainbow, whom she finds of course\nalways seated in the sunshine on a fountain. While talking to him,\nshe lets her fire out. Lagr\u00e9e sends her to get fresh fire from the\ngiant Locrinos, devourer of maidens; the giant's wife takes compassion\non her, and gives her the fire, and with it a stone to use in time\nof distress. Lagr\u00e9e, in fury at her success, sends away Prince\nRainbow. Fairer-than-Fairies escapes, and goes in search of him,\ntaking with her the stone, a branch of myrtle, and her cat and dog;\nwhen she is weary with wandering, the stone provides her a cave to\nsleep in, the dog keeping guard. Lagr\u00e9e pursues her; the dog attacks\nher, and throws her down, so that she breaks her only tooth, and the\nprincess escapes for another stage. Lagr\u00e9e overtakes her again as she\nis sleeping in a bower the branch of myrtle has raised for her. The\ncat makes the defence this time, scratching out her only eye, finally\ndisabling her. After this, Fairer-than-Fairies is entertained in a\nwhite and green palace by a white and green lady, who gives her a\nnut, to be used only in direst need. After another year's wanderings,\nanother white and green lady gives her a pomegranate; at the end of\nanother year, another gives her a crystal vial. Afterwards she comes to\na silver palace, suspended by silver chains from four trees. She then\nbreaks the nut; a Swiss appears and admits her, and she finds Prince\nRainbow in an enchanted sleep, answering to the kiss of forgetfulness\nin 'Filagranata.' Fairer-than-Fairies breaks open the pomegranate,\nall the pips become violins, whose melody makes the prince open his\neyes. She breaks open the crystal flask, and a Seiren appears, who\nsings the tale of all the princess has endured. The prince wakes--the\nspell is ended. The silver palace turns into a real and inhabited\none. They embrace, and are married.\n\n'Incarnat, Blanc et Noir,' in the same 'Recueil,' is very similar\nto the 'Three Love-Oranges.' A prince walking out in the snow sees\na crow. He tries his skill at bringing him down, and the black bird\nfalls bleeding on the white snow. The sight makes him desire a maiden\nwho combines these three tints. Suddenly a voice tells him to go to the\n'Kingdom of Marvels,' and that there he will find a tree with splendid\napples (they are not expressly said to be golden). He is to take three,\nand not to open them till he reaches home. Curiosity overcomes him by\nthe way; he opens one, and a beautiful maiden appears; before he can\nembrace her she disappears. Afterwards, his homeward travels lead him\non the sea; the desire to open one of the apples again overcomes him,\nbut though he orders the vessel to be closely covered down all over,\nthe second maiden disappears like the first. He only opens the third\non reaching home, and then there comes to him a maiden exactly such\nas he desired, whom he marries. Afterwards he goes to the wars; and\nthe mother-in-law, who hated her all along, kills her, and throws her\nbody in the castle moat, and substitutes another woman, a creature\nof her own. The prince expresses his surprise, but she assures him\nthe different appearance is only the effect of a spell. The prince,\nhowever, pines after his own maiden. One day he sees swimming in\nthe castle moat a fish with red, white, and black scales, which he\nspends all his time in gazing at. The false wife pretends she has an\nirrepressible desire to eat that particular fish; she is in a delicate\nstate of health, and he cannot refuse her. After that a tree springs up\nsuddenly, which once more presents the three colours. The false wife\n(inspired by the mother-in-law) demands that it shall be cut down\nand burnt. He cannot refuse her. Finally, a palace, built of rubies,\npearls, and jet, suddenly appears by the side of his own. By unheard-of\nexertion he gets into it, and there finds in a cabinet his own maiden,\nwhom he recalls to his side.\n\nAnother ('Le Buisson d'\u00c9pines fleuries') contains noticeable\nanalogies with both the group of 'The Pot of Marjoram,' and that\nof 'Maria Wood.' The mother of a fairy princess is led to fill the\nstepmother's part towards her, by her having so lavishly distributed\nthe ointment of perpetual youth, which had been entrusted to her\nkeeping, that none is left for the queen's own use when she desires\nto have recourse to it to regain the lost affections of her husband,\nan earthly king. The governess comes to the aid of the princess, and\nthey fly away together with tents and all requisites of the journey\nstowed away in pearls for travelling boxes (some analogy, perhaps,\nwith the 'Candeliera'). Their adventures bring them across Prince\nZelindor, who marries the princess. The vengeance of the fairy mother\npursues them in various shapes, till at last she turns Zelindor into\na Sweet Briar. The princess is attracted towards the plant, and tends\nit with the greatest care, without knowing it is her husband. The\nenraged fairy queen orders her to pluck a branch, and she is obliged\nto obey. The plant flows with blood, and Zelindor declares she is the\ncause of his death; at this juncture the husband of the fairy queen,\nfetched by the benevolent governess, appears. His return reconciles\nthe queen to her daughter; and with an elixir she heals Zelindor's\nwounds, and restores him to his bride.\n\nPerrault's rimed fable of 'Peau d'\u00c2ne' is much nearer 'Maria Wood.' The\ndying queen binds the king to marry no one who does not surpass her in\nbeauty and understanding. Only their daughter comes up to the mark. Her\nfairy godmother tells her to ask for the brilliant dresses, and finally\nfor the skin of a gold-coin-producing donkey. The king sacrifices\neven this. The fairy tells her to put on this skin while she stows\nher sunbeam dresses, jewels, &c., in a press which she promises shall\nfollow underground wherever she carries her wand. She is made hen-wife\nin a king's farmyard, and puts on her brilliant dresses on holidays in\nher private room. The prince sees her through the keyhole, and falls\nill because his parents object to the union. 'Peau d'\u00c2ne' makes him\na cake into which she drops one of her rings. The prince is charmed\nwith the idea of the hand it suggests to him; his malady increases,\nand this softens his parents. He says he will marry no one but her\nwhom the ring fits, and thus of course 'Peau d'\u00c2ne' marries him.\n\nThe counterpart, in Perrault, to the group to which 'Il R\u00e8 Moro'\nbelongs is a very clever, but somewhat artificially told story, called\n'Kadour.' Kadour, an exquisitely beautiful princess of Cashmere,\nis utterly deficient, not in riches, like the chicory-seller's\ndaughter, but in mind. She comes one day to a hole in the ground, and\na monstrous figure comes out of it, and offers her the gift of mind,\non condition of marrying him in a year. Without knowing what mind is,\nshe has perceived that all her exceeding beauty has been powerless\nto attract any of the attention she has seen lavished on others,\nand she gives a sort of stupid consent. The monster tells her that\nthe gift of mind is to be obtained by simply repeating the words,\n'O Love, who canst inspire all things; if it needs but to love to\nlose my insipidity, behold I am ready!'\n\n\n        'O toi qui peux tout animer,\n        Amour, si pour n'\u00eatre plus b\u00eate\n        Il ne faut que savoir aimer,\n              Je suis pr\u00eate.'\n\n\nIn proportion as she repeats these words she is filled with\nintelligence; but no sooner is she so gifted than everyone appreciates\nand surrounds her, and she soon falls in love with Arada, the\nhandsomest of her adorers. When the monster returns at the end of the\nyear, and takes her down to his palace through the hole in the earth,\nshe is in great perplexity what decision to make. She perceives that\neither way she must lose Arada, and says that she cannot give any\nanswer; the monster says he will decide for her, and send her back to\nher first estate. Her newly-acquired powers, however, give her such\nloathing of this condition, that she finally prefers retaining her\nmind even on the terrible condition already propounded. The monster\ndeclares himself King of the Gnomes, master of boundless riches,\nand every kind of luxury and pleasure is lavished on her, as on the\nchicory-seller, to reconcile her with her situation; but in this case\nall in vain. She contrives to let Arada know her unhappy position,\nthat she may have the benefit of his sympathy. The gnome-king punishes\nher by transforming his handsome person into a duplicate of his own,\nso that Kadour never knows to which of them she is speaking.\n\nThis story is better known under the title of 'Riquet \u00e0 la Houpe,'\nunder which name it has been dramatised; in this, however, the\nsenseless but beautiful princess has the compensatory faculty of\nrendering handsome her mind-giving but hideous lover, and therefore\nthe happy d\u00e9nouement is easily worked out. It is also the foundation\nof 'Beauty and the Beast;' and probably springs from the same idea\nas that embodied in the Ardshi Bordshi story I have given as 'Who\ninvented Woman,' in 'Sagas from the Far East.'\n\nA sort of counterpart to the story of 'Il R\u00e8 Moro' is given under\nthe title of 'Le Prince Sincer,' in Gueulette's 'Fabliaux, ou Soir\u00e9es\nBretonnes,' but this series seems to be but a r\u00e9chauff\u00e9 of Oriental\ntales, and not a collection of local traditions, as the name leads one\nto expect, notwithstanding that he introduces Druids into them. The\nstory I have named forms a link also in some of its details with that\nin the text called 'I Satiri.' Another of the same series, called 'Le\nPrince Engageant,' has some analogy with the 'Tre Merangoli di Amore'\n(The Three Love-Oranges), in a prince finding his bride by giving\nher a pomegranate while she is transformed as a dragon.\n\nIn a note to his translation of the ballad of 'P\u00e9r\u00e9dur ou le Bassin\nMagique,' Th. de la Villemarqu\u00e9 [421] gives a Breton version of the\n'Three Golden Apples' story. P\u00e9r\u00e9dur is induced to abandon the state\nof retirement in which his mother has kept him, after the death of\nhis father and his five brothers, by seeing Owen ride by, 'seeking\nthe knight who divided the apples at the Court of Arthur.' Upon this\nthe annotator remarks that the episode here alluded to has not been\ndiscovered; but, by way of compensation, he supplies the following,\nwhich was told him by a peasant of the diocese of Quimper, who could\nnot read, and had received it by tradition from his forefathers.\n\nKing Arthur was holding a feast at Lannion, in Brittany; five other\nkings assisted at it, with their wives and their suite. Just as dinner\nis over Merlin appears, and hands three golden apples to the king, and\nsays they are to be adjudged to the three most beautiful women. There\nis a great commotion, and blood is about to flow in the dispute,\nwhen an unknown knight advances into the hall, mounted on a black\ncharger with so luxuriant a mane that it envelops both him and his\nrider. The cause of dispute is referred to him for arbitration. He\ntakes up the three apples, and compares their colour to the hair of\nthe five queens, and their perfume to the ladies' breath; but settles\nthe competition, like 'the Gold-Spitting Prince,' in 'Sagas from the\nFar East,' by disappearing with the prize.\n\nHe further quotes, from 'Myvyrian,' i. 151, 152, 155, that Merlin\nwas so fond of apples that he devoted a poem to their celebration,\nand declared he had an orchard with 147 apple-trees of the greatest\nbeauty; their shade was as valued as their fruit, and was confided\nto the care, not of a dragon, but of a fair maiden, with floating\nhair and teeth like drops of dew.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX C. p. 195.\n\nIt ought to have been remarked under Note 1, that Abelard's name\nis spelt Abailard in old French, which brings it nearer the name in\nthe legend.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX D. p. 196.\n\nCardinal Valerio, Bishop of Verona (in his 'De Rhetorica Christiana'\ncited in Ludovic Lalanne's 'Curiosit\u00e9s des Traditions,' iv. 403-4),\nhas a very ingenious mode, among others, of accounting for\nthe amplification of Legends; he says it was the custom in many\nmonasteries to give the young monks liberty as a sort of exercise and\npastime to write variations of the acts of the saints and martyrs,\nand they exerted their fancy in producing imaginary conversations and\nincidents of a nature consonant with the original story; that the most\ningenious and well-written of these would sometimes be placed among\nother MSS. in the Library, and would mislead readers in later times.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX E. p. 208.\n\nCharles Louandre ('Chefs-d'oeuvre des Conteurs Fran\u00e7ais,' Paris, 1873)\ngives an episode out of the 'Voyage d'outremer du Comte de Ponthieu'\n(a Roman of the thirteenth century), which has curious analogies both\nwith this tale of the Pilgrims, with another Roman story I have in MS.,\nand with that of 'The Irish Princess' in 'Patra\u00f1as.' Ad\u00e8le de Ponthieu\nwas married to Thi\u00e9bault de Domart. They go a pilgrimage to S. James\nof Compostella to pray that they may have heirs. Robbers overcome\nthem by the way, bind Thi\u00e9bault to a tree, and ill-treat Ad\u00e8le. As\nsoon as she escapes from them Thi\u00e9bault calls to her to cut his bonds\nwith his sword; she, judging it better that he should die than live\nto blush for her, attempts to take his life with the same blow which\nsevers the cord; he foresees her intention and circumvents it. He\ndoes not divine her motive, but yet makes no allusion to the matter\ntill they return from their pilgrimage, then he puts it as an A and B\ncase to her father; the father decides such a woman should die. She\nis put into a barrel and cast into the sea; the barrel is picked up\nby merchants who sell her to the Sultan, and she becomes the mother\nof the mother of Saladin. Meantime her father and husband cannot rest\nfor love of her, they go to search the world over for her. A shipwreck\nmakes them the property of the Sultan who makes a present of them to\nAd\u00e8le. She, recognising them, pretends to be a Saracen soothsayer,\nand by revealing her acquaintance with their previous history, like\nthe injured Queen in 'The Pilgrims,' brings them to an expression of\npenitence and of lasting love for her. She then escapes with them\nand lives happily with her husband, the Pope prescribing to her a\ncertain penitential rule of life to purge her involuntary infidelity.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX F. p. 392.\n\nThe centenarian Guillaume Boucher (1506-1606) gives in his 'S\u00e9r\u00e9es'\na French story (called 'The Fish-bone') of a quack doctor favoured by\nluck, to whom he gives the name of Messire Grillo. Charles Louandre\n('Chefs-d'oeuvre des conteurs Fran\u00e7ais,' p. 278) points out that\ndoctors hardly ever figure in popular literature before the sixteenth\ncentury, though after the Renaissance they became the constant subject\nof satire; and that thus Moli\u00e8re did little more than collect the\njokes at their expense which had been floating during the previous\nhalf-century.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\n[1] An hour before the evening Ave.\n\n[2] Professor de Gubernatis (whose work was not published till my\ncollection had long been in progress) fills a far more important place\nthan that of a mere collector of legends. His vast generalisations,\nindeed, touch less upon the household tales of Italy than those of\nany other country, and those which he does introduce are entirely\nfrom Tuscany and Piedmont. I had not the advantage of seeing either\nhis book on 'Zoological Mythology,' or Mr. Cox's 'Mythology of\nthe Aryan Nations,' till after my MS. was in the printer's hands,\nand was not able, therefore, to give references in my notes to the\nplaces where their interpretation may be found, though each group to\nwhich my stories respectively belong has been treated by them. It\nis a treatment, however, which requires to be studied as a whole,\nand could hardly be understood under any piecemeal reference.\n\n[3] There are, of course, the older collections of Straparola and\nBasile, referred to by Mr. Campbell and Professor De Gubernatis, not\nto speak of those of Boccaccio and Sacchetti; but these were made\nfor quite different purposes than that of supplying Italy's quota\nto the study of Comparative Mythology. The comparatively recent\n'Collection of Sicilian Tales,' by Laura Gonzenbach, mentioned by\nProfessor De Gubernatis, I did not know of, and have not been able to\nsee. Straparola's collection seems, in Rome at least, to have fallen\ninto the oblivion which Mr. Campbell says is its merited lot. At least,\nnot only was it not mentioned to me at any of the dep\u00f4ts where rare\nbooks are a sp\u00e9cialit\u00e9, but my subsequent inquiry for it by name\nfailed to produce a copy.\n\n[4] I gave a translation of one of them, containing legendary details\nof the 'Flight into Egypt,' together with some verses of a Spanish\nversion of the same, in a paper on 'Street Music in Rome,' in the\n'Monthly Packet' of December, 1868.\n\n[5] Roman vernacular for a child of either sex.\n\n[6] Whatever Biverde may mean. Possibly bel-verde, such, at least, is\nthe title of Pellicciaio's Madonna with the 'beautiful green' dress,\nat the Servite Church, Siena. The title may also be compared with 'The\nMaid of the Bright-Green Kirtle,' in Campbell's 'West Highland Tales.'\n\n[7] This, I am inclined to think, is the case with some published\nstories, as e.g. the singular medley contained in the third of the\n'Tales of the West Highlands,' vol. i.\n\n[8] Except perhaps among the Scotch Highlanders. See Campbell's\n'Tales,' Preface to vol. i.\n\n[9] See remarks in Preface to Campbell's 'Tales of the West Highlands,'\nvol. i. p. c. Dr. Dasent's 'Popular Tales from the Norse,' pp. xliv,\nxlv, &c.\n\n[10] It has been observed to me that these words furnish a remarkable,\nbecause unconscious, parallel to the well-known dictum of Minucius\nFelix, on the mythical exploits of the old heathen gods and heroes,\n'Qu\u00e6 si facta essent fierent; quia fieri non possunt ide\u00f2 nec facta\nsunt.'\n\n[11] ('And they burnt her to death in the public square.')\n\n[12] 'Don't marry or set out on a journey on a Friday or Tuesday;'\nand under the two heads brought under the rime, any other undertaking\nis equally proscribed: some servants, for instance, dislike going to\na new situation on those days.\n\n[13] In the story of 'Filagranata,' infra, pp. 6 et seq., he is\ndivested in a marked manner of the individuality and importance\nattaching to his part in the corresponding versions of other countries.\n\n[14] The Rev. Alfred White told me, however, an English story of the\nsort, picked up from a countryman in Berkshire. The Magpie was one\nday building her nest so neatly, and whispering to herself after her\nwont as she laid each straw in its place, 'This upon that, this upon\nthat,' when the Woodpigeon came by. Now the Woodpigeon was young and\nflighty, and had never learnt how to build a nest; but when she saw\nhow beautifully neat that of the Magpie looked, she thought she would\nlike to learn the art. The busy Magpie willingly accepted the office\nof teaching her, and began a new one on purpose. Long before she\nwas half through, however, the flighty Woodpigeon sang out, 'That'll\ndoooo!' The Magpie was offended at the interruption, and flew away in\ndudgeon, and that's why the Woodpigeon always builds such ramshackle\nnests. Told well; the 'This upon that!' and the 'That'll do!' takes\njust the sound of the cry of each of the birds named.\n\n[15] This story comes from Palombara.\n\n[16] The expression employed in this place was 'Orca;' as this is a\nword of most frequent, but somewhat capricious use, I interrupted the\nnarrator to inquire her conception of it. 'Well, it means a species\nof beast,' she said; 'but you see it must have been a bewitched\n('fatata') beast, because the story says it was so rich, and had a\npalace, and spoke and did all the things you shall hear.' She did\nnot, however, seem to identify it with the evil principle according\nto its undoubted derivation, nor did she allow either that it had\nany connexion with 'orso,' a bear, as the narrator of the 'il Vaso\ndi Persa' had expounded it, and indeed as the details of that story\nrequired; it will be seen, therefore, that popular fancy invests\nthe monster with various shapes. The story of 'The Pot of Marjoram,'\nit will be seen, contains one or two incidents in common with this\none. The apparently insignificant detail of the little plant--on\nwhich, however, both stories rest for a foundation--is noteworthy,\nthe narrator in each instance being most positive that it was the one\nshe had named and no other, and in both cases insisting on showing\nme the plant, that there might be no mistake about it. (See note to\nthe word 'Persa,' infra, p. 54.)\n\n[17]    Filagranata bella bella,\n        Tira gi\u00f9 le bionde trecce,\n        Ch' io son nonna vecchiarella.\n\n'Tira gi\u00f9,' or 'butta gi\u00f9,' as in the next repetition, mean equally\n'throw-down.' 'Biondo' expresses particularly the yellow tint in\nhair. Bazzarini, 'Ortografia Enciclopedica Universale,' defines it,\n'colore tra il giallo e bianco ed \u00e8 proprio di capelli,' on the\nauthority of Petrarch's use of the word. He has also 'biondeggiante,\nche biondeggia, che ingiallisce,' turning or tending to yellow;\nand it is thus the yellow Tiber gets called 'il biondo Tevere.'\n\n[18] 'Portogallo' is now the ordinary word for an orange, and points\nto the introduction of the fruit from the Portuguese colonies in\nthe sixteenth century. The 'arancia,' 'melarancia,' or 'merangola,'\nthe ungrafted orange-tree, was, however, indigenous in Italy; and\nthe fruit, which has even a finer appearance than the edible orange,\nis still grown for ornament in Roman gardens.\n\n[19] 'Puzzo,' stink. There is no neutral word in Italian for a smell;\nyou must define a good or a bad smell either as a perfume or a stink.\n\n[20] 'Camminando, camminando, camminando.' This threefold repetition\nof this verb, according to the tense and person required by the story,\nI have found used as a sort of sing-song refrain by all the tellers\nof tales I have had to do with.\n\n[21] 'Vecchiarella,' little old woman.\n\n[22] 'Fata;' ethnologically Fata is the same as 'Fairy,' 'F\u00e9e,' &c.,\n&c., and 'fairy' is the only translation; but it will be observed the\nItalian 'fata' has always different characteristics from the English\n'fairy.'\n\n[23] 'Buzzica' is a homely word for a lamp-filler; it probably comes\nfrom 'buzzicare,' to move gently or slowly. The narrator used the\nword because she would, according to local custom, keep her oil in a\n'buzzica,' without perceiving that it was most inappropriate for the\npurpose of the story, which required that the oil should be poured\nout quickly.\n\n[24] 'Allagato,' inundated. I preserve the word on account of its\nexpressiveness--literally making a lake of the country.\n\n[25] 'Fior di farina.'\n\n[26] As the story was told me the dialogue was broken, and every\nincident of the journey was made the subject of a separate question\nand answer; all the furniture in the room also here entered into\nconversation with the pigeons, brooms being particularly loquacious;\nbut as it became tedious, and by no means added to the poetry of the\nsituation, I condensed it to the dimensions in the text.\n\n[27] 'I tre Melangoli di amore;' melangolo or merangolo, or merangola,\nan ungrafted orange. See note to 'Filagranata.'\n\n[28] 'Caccia,' though usually translated by 'hunt,' is used for\nall kinds of sport. Bazzarini says it even includes 'pallone' and\nother games; but it is in common use for shooting small birds as for\nhunting quadrupeds.\n\n[29] 'Mora Saracena,' a black Saracen woman; 'mora' is in constant\nuse for a dark-coloured person. Senhor de Saraiva tells me that a\nso-called 'Mora encantada' figures as one of the favourite personages\nin Portuguese traditionary tales; but she is less often an actual\nMoor than a princess held in thrall by Moorish art, to be set free by\nChristian chivalry. She is often represented as bound at the bottom\nof a well.\n\n[30]    Mia padrona dice che son tanta brutta,\n            E son tanta bella,\n        Io rompo la brocca e la brocchetta.\n\nThis verse would be hardly comprehensible but that the incident is\nbetter explained in the more detailed versions of other countries\nmentioned in note to the last tale. The ugly 'Mora' sees the reflection\nof the face of the beautiful maiden who sits in the tree overlooking\nthe fountain, and takes it for her own. See Campbell's Tales of the\nW. Highlands, pp. 56-7, &c.\n\n[31]    Cuoco, cuoco, per chi cucinate,\n        Pel figlio del r\u00e8 o per la mora Saracena?\n        Il cuoco si possa dormentar',\n        E le vivande si possano bruciar'.\n\n[32] 'Palombelletta,' dear little dove.\n\n[33] 'Spillone,' big pin. This magic use of long pins driven into the\nhead is one of the frequent charges against witches. See numerous\ninstances at various epochs given by Del Rio, 'Disquisitionum\nMagicarum,' lib. iii. p. 1, 2 iv. s. II., where he mentions among\nothers the cases of two midwives who were convicted in Germany of\nhaving destroyed, the one forty, the other innumerable, new-born\ninfants in this manner.\n\n[34]    Cuoco! cuoco! di reale cucina\n        Che faremo della regina?\n        Tutti posse a dormentar',\n        E la pranza posse bruciar'.\n\nThe words have been clipt in repetition. 'Posse,' in the third line,\nmust be a corruption of 'si pongono,' from the verb 'ponere;' and in\nthe fourth line, of 'si puo,' from the verb 'potere.'\n\n[35] 'Cinderella' is a favourite in all countries, with its promise\nof compensation to the desolate and oppressed. I only came across\nit once, however, while making this collection, in its own simple\nform, and with a name as near its own as Cenorientola. Of course the\nconstruction of such words is quite arbitrary, and any Italian can\nmake a dozen such out of any name or word: even in the dictionary the\nfollowing variations are to be found--'Cenericcio,' 'Cenerognolo,'\n'Cenerino,' 'Ceneroso,' 'Cenerugiolo.'\n\n[36]    Da mi tu panni belli,\n        Ed io te do i cencirelli.\n\n[37]    Da mi tu abiti belli\n        Ed io te do i stracciarelli.\n\nThe same as above: 'abiti' and 'panni' are convertible, so are 'cenci'\nand 'straccj.'\n\n[38] 'Vaccarella,' 'dear little cow,' 'good little cow.' The endearment\nis expressed in the form of the diminutive.\n\n[39] 'Maestra.'\n\n[40] 'Basta,' 'enough,' 'to cut a long story short.'\n\n[41] 'Fatata.'\n\n[42]    Butta sopr' alle corna a me,\n        E vatene far l'erba per me.\n\n'Corno' is one of the words which (as 'muro,' 'novo,' 'braccio,'\n'dito,' &c.), masculine in the singular, have a feminine plural.\n\n[43] 'Carr\u00e8vale,' or 'corr\u00e8vale'--I could not very well distinguish\nwhich, and do not know the word. The narrator explained it as like\n'c\u00e0napa'--hemp, only finer. 'Refe' is used in the same sense in\nTuscany.\n\n[44]      Pallo dorato! Pallo dorato!\n        Vestimi d'oro e dammi l'innamorato.\n\n'Dorato' is used for 'golden' as well as for 'gilt.' The change from\n'palla,' a ball, to 'pallo' is a very considerable license, for the\nsake of making it rime with 'innamorato;' though some words admit of\nbeing spelt either way, as 'mattino' or 'mattina, 'botto' or 'botta'\n(a blow), and others can be used with either gender without alteration,\nas 'polvere.' I have never met with 'pallo' elsewhere, though it is\none of the words which take a masculine augmentative ('pallone').\n\n[45] 'Novena,' a short service, with or without a sermon, said for\nnine days before some great festival, in preparation for it.\n\n[46] 'Pianella,' a sandal, or slipper without a heel. 'In those days\nthey used to wear such things instead of shoes,' commented the old\nlady as she told the tale.\n\n[47] 'Botte,' a very large wine-barrel of a certain measure.\n\n[48] Here called 'buona figlia,' 'good daughter.' There did not seem\nany reason for this designation. Possibly the narrator had forgotten\nsome incident of the story, introducing it.\n\n[49] That the cellar should be, as thus appears, on the ground-floor,\nis very characteristic of Rome, though there are, of course, plenty\nof underground cellars too; but the one is properly 'cantino' and\n'canova,' and the other 'grottino.' The distinction is, however, not\nvery rigidly observed in common parlance. To have an underground cellar\nis so far a specialit\u00e9, that it has been taken to be a sufficiently\ndistinctive attribute to supply the sign or title to those inns\nwhich possess it. Rufini gives examples of above a dozen thus called\n'Del Grottino.'\n\n[50] The ground-floor being used as a cellar, the family lives\nupstairs. This is a very common arrangement.\n\n[51] The reader who has not access to a better rendering of this\nbeautiful legend will find one I have given from Bopp, in 'Sagas\nfrom the Far East,' pp. 402-3; but Mr. Ralston gives us a Russian\nversion, in which a doll or puppet is the agent instead of the cow\n(pp. 150-9). It is true, on the other hand, that he has (p. 115)\nanother rather different story, in which a cow also gives good gifts;\nand mentions others at p. 260. In a story of the Italian Tirol, 'Le\ndue Sorelle,' which I shall have occasion to notice later, a cow has\nalso a supernatural part to play, somewhat like that of Vaccarella;\nonly there she acts at the bidding of a fairy, not of her own motion.\n\n[52] 'Il R\u00e8 che va a Pranzo.'\n\n[53] I am inclined to think there was some forgetfulness here on the\npart of the narrator; such artifices always fulfil the conditions they\nevade in some underhand way--they never set them utterly at defiance,\nas in the instance in the text. Such conditions also always go in\nthrees; the third was probably forgotten in this instance.\n\n[54] 'Pizza,' a cake made of Indian corn.\n\n[55] 'Cartoccio,' a conical paper parcel.\n\n[56] 'Bacchettino da comando.'\n\n[57] 'Biocca cogli polsini d'oro,' a hen and chickens all of gold;\n'biocca' is a word used by peasants for 'gallina,' and 'polsini' for\n'pollastri.'\n\n[58] 'Pescheria,' ordinarily 'fish-market,' but sometimes, as in this\nplace, a tank or piece of water for preserving fish for table. That\nso large a fish as a whale should be kept in one, is only one of the\nexaggerations proper to the realm of fable.\n\n[59] The very incident which occurs in the stepmother story of 'How\nthe Serpent-gods were Propitiated,' in 'Sagas from the Far East.'\n\n[60] 'Il vaso di persa.' Marjoram goes by the name of 'persa'\nin the vernacular of Rome. Parsley, which sounds the more literal\ntranslation, is 'erbetta.' I think the narrator believed it to be\nconnected with Persia.\n\n[61] 'Fata' is a powerful enchantress. I know no English equivalent but\n'fairy,' though there is this difference that a 'fata' is by no means\ninvariably an airy and beautiful being; she more often wears a very\nordinary appearance, and not unfrequently that of a very old wrinkled\nwoman, but is always goodnatured and benevolent, as distinguished\nfrom the malevolent 'strega,' a nearer counterpart of our 'witch.'\n\n[62] 'Le femmine sempre pigliano il peggio.'\n\n[63] 'Non tutto il male vien' per nuocere.'\n\n[64] 'Orgo,' the vernacular form of the classic 'Orco,' is the Italian\nequivalent for 'Old Bogey;' but it is also used in place of 'orso,'\na bear (as in the precise instance of this tale being told to me),\nwhen it is desired to give terror to his character in a tale.\n\n[65] Has this anything to do with 'riding the cock-horse'?\n\n[66] 'Il Vaso di Ruta.'\n\n[67] 'Orco ed orchessa.'\n\n[68] This was pronounced 'Uttone,' but was doubtless intended for\n'King Otho.' Words which in Latin were spelt with a u, as 'Bollo,'\n'pollo,' retain the sound of u in the mouth of the people; but I know\nof no reason for it in the present instance.\n\n[69] 'Precipizio,' equivalent to 'an explosion,' 'a terrible kick-up,'\n&c.\n\n[70] The blood instead of the fat is one of the variations of\nthis version. It is not easy to see how blood can enter into the\ncomposition of an ointment, yet one of the most frequent charges to\nbe met in processes against witches was taking the blood of infants\nto make various ointments.\n\n[71] Maria di Legno.\n\n[72] This is one of the very rare instances in which the Devil appears\nin Roman stories in this kind of character, so common in Northern\npopular tales.\n\n[73] 'Colle gioie compagne.'\n\n[74] 'Vecchiarella.'\n\n[75] 'Gallinara.'\n\n[76] A 'buon carnevale' chiefly implies the wish that the person to\nwhom it is addressed should have good success with partners at the\nballs, &c.\n\n[77] A 'festino' is the common name for a public masqued ball\ncommencing at midnight. There are three principal ones in the Roman\nCarneval; in other parts of Italy, where the Carneval is longer,\nthere are probably more. It is also called 'Veglione,' because it\nkeeps people awake at a time when they ought to be in bed.\n\n[78] 'How quick princes always were in falling in love in those\ndays!' was the running comment of the narrator.\n\n[79] To understand the implied satire of this word it is necessary\nto observe that 'Frusta' is a whip; the princess therefore says she\ncame from 'Frustinaia,' Whip-blow.\n\n[80] 'Stivale,' a boot. As the prince had struck her with his boot,\nshe says she comes from 'Stivalaia,' Boot-kick.\n\n[81] 'Schiaffaia' from schiaffa, a slap. The prince had given her a\nslap, so she says she comes from Slap-land.\n\n[82] Among the licenses which Italians take with the terminations\nof their words, not the least is altering the gender. 'Candeliere'\n(masc.), otherwise 'candelliere,' is the proper form; and I do not\nthink 'candeliera' will be found in any dictionary; but as the story\nrequires the female gender, the word is readily coined.\n\n[83] 'I due Fratelli Gobbi.'\n\n[84] 'Bachettone mena!' Perhaps the greatest stumbling-block in the\nway of acquiring familiarity with the art of conversing in Italian is\nthe capricious use of the augmentative and diminutive terminations\nof words. Scarcely any substantive or adjective comes out of the\nmouth of an Italian without qualifications of this sort, making the\nspoken quite different from the written language. A foreigner can\nnever arrive at the right use of these, because they have to be made\nup at the moment of use, upon no established laws, but entirely by\na sort of instinctive perception of fitness. At Note 1 and 3 to 'Il\nPoveretto,' and other places, I have given some specimens of some of\nthe most ordinary of these transformations. In the instance before\nus, 'bacchettone,' from 'bacchetta,' a rod, presents two distinct\nirregularities. The augmentative of a feminine noun never ought\nstrictly to be 'ona;' but there are numerous instances, scarcely to\nbe remembered under the largest practice, in which a feminine noun\ntakes a masculine augmentative. 'Bacchetta' happens to be one of\nthese. Next, the addition 'one' would ordinarily express that the\nthing to whose designation it was added was particularly big; yet in\nthis instance it is applied to a little wand; it is clear, therefore,\nthat it no longer means 'big,' but 'singular,' 'remarkable' in some\nway or other; best rendered in English by 'good stick.' 'Menare,'\nwhence 'mena,' is a word of many meanings, which, though they may\nbe all traced to the same original idea, must not be confounded. In\ncommon parlance, as in the present case, it means to beat; and\n'menar moglie' is a common expression too; but it does not mean 'to\nbeat your wife,' but 'to lead home a wife,' or, as we say, to 'take\na wife.' The primary meaning is 'to lead;' hence, to govern; hence,\nto govern harshly; hence, to govern with violence; hence, to spite,\nto beat. One sentence in which it is used recalls a capricious use\nof our own word 'to beat.' 'Menar' il cane per l'aja' (literally,\nto lead the dog all about the threshing-floor), answers exactly\nto our expression, 'to beat about the bush' in talking. 'Menare'\nand 'dimenare, la coda,' is said also of a dog wagging his tail. On\nthe other hand, 'menare per il naso' (literally, 'to lead one by the\nnose'), has by no means the signification those words bear in English,\nbut implies a roundabout way of giving an account of anything.\n\n[85] 'Il R\u00e8 Moro.'\n\n[86] 'Moro' does not necessarily mean a Moor, it is continually used\nfor any dark-complexioned person; also commonly for dark or black,\nas a pet name for a black dog, &c.\n\n[87] The 'moccolaio.'\n\n[88] The narrator ended this story with the following stanza:--\n\n        Si faceva le nozze\n        Con pane e tozze,\n        E polla vermiciosa,\n        E viva la sposa!\n\nThis is one of those rough verses with which such stories abound,\nand they have been rendered rougher than they originally were\nby substituting words which serve to retain the jingle after\nthose conveying the sense are forgotten, like many of our own\nnursery-rhymes. The literal rendering of this one would be, 'So\nthe marriage was celebrated with bread and hunches of bread, and a\nchicken stuffed with vermicelli. Long live the bride!' 'Vermiciosa'\nis not a dictionary word; 'vermicoloso' is the nearest, and probably a\ncorruption of the same. Of course, primarily it means 'full of worms;'\nbut as all the forms of words compounded out of the diminutive of\n'verme,' a worm, may be applied to the fine kind of maccaroni which\nbears the same name, I am more inclined to think a fowl stuffed or\nserved up with maccaroni is meant here--if it have any meaning at\nall beyond the purpose of a rhyme--rather than 'a wormy fowl,' the\nliteral interpretation.\n\nI have met this same 'tag' again and again in the mouths of various\nnarrators at the end of stories which end in a marriage. Another such,\nfamiliarly used by every Roman narrator, is:--\n\n        'Stretta la foglia,\n        Larga la via (often, 'Stretta la via'),\n        Dite la vostra, Larga la foglia,\n        Ch' ho detto la mia.'\n\n('Narrow the leaf, broad the way. Tell me your tale, for I've told you\nmine.') Perhaps originally it was 'Larga la voglia' (my willingness\nis ample, but my means of amusing you are restricted).\n\n[89] At what period the title of honour of 'Monsu' got appended to\nthe monster's name is more than I can fix.\n\n[90] 'Chi \u00e8?' 'amic\u00e8.' See note 3, p. 187.\n\n[91] The reader will bear in mind, in this and other places, that\n'papa' and 'mama' are vernacular for 'father' and 'mother' among\nchildren of the lowest classes in Italy.\n\n[92] 'Son' io.' I have generally found these stories told with a great\ndeal of effect, especially to suit the tone to the dialogues. It was\nparticularly the case with this one, e.g. the 'son' io' was said in the\nlamentable tone of a person wearied with fatigue and disappointment.'\n\n[93] 'Vatene, brutta cornuda!'\n\n[94] 'La Rosa fatata.'\n\n[95] According to the narrator, there was a dish of 'pasta' heaped up\nlike a mountain; and 'souplis di riso con rigaglie' and 'capone con\ncontorni,' and several kinds of wine. I give this description verbally,\nas it was given to me, as characteristic of the local colouring such\nlegends receive. The dishes named are the favourites of the Roman\nmiddle class. 'Pasta' is the Roman equivalent for the 'maccaroni' of\nthe Neapolitan. 'Rigaglie' is the liver, &c., of poultry minced, to\nput into the fried balls of rice. 'Contorni' means something more than\n'garnish,' being something put round the dish, not merely for ornament,\nbut more or less substantial, to be eaten with it, as sausages round\na turkey.\n\n[96] The word used in this place was 'mostro,' not 'orco,' marking\na distinct idea in the tradition, where it is the Principle of Evil\nhimself who is intended, and where, an unfortunate mortal subjected\nby malice to his influence.\n\n[97] 'Sciocco,' a simpleton; 'scioccolone,' a great awkward simpleton.\n\n[98] Even in this story, where the fairies really are described as\nfair to see, it will be observed it is only said they had assumed\nthe forms of beautiful girls for one occasion, not that they were\nnecessarily beautiful, like our fairies.\n\n[99] 'Fatatura,' the virtue of enchantment.\n\n[100] 'Villa' is more often used to express a little estate--or, as\nwe should say, the 'grounds' on which a country-house stands--than\nfor the house itself, though we have borrowed the word exclusively\nin the latter sense.\n\n[101] 'Casino' a tasteful little house.\n\n[102] 'Dodici palmi di naso,' a nose twelve palms long. Twelve palms\nmake a canna and a half, equal to three m\u00e8tres.\n\n[103] 'Ciuffoletto.' 'What is a 'ciuffoletto?' I asked. 'Much the\nsame as a fravodo,' the narrator answered; and I remembered that from\nanother, in another tale, I had made out 'fravodo' to be a horn.\n\n[104] That the second of the three sons should be the hero of the\nstory is, I think, an unusual variation.\n\n[105] See Note 4, p. 146.\n\n[106] 'Mezza canna di Naso,' half a cane of nose. A cane is the former\nRoman standard measure, and was exactly equal to two m\u00e8tres.\n\n[107] 'Palmo,' was the expression used; the Canna was divided into\neight palms.\n\n[108] 'Calava, calava, calava.'\n\n[109] 'Adesso so' a cavallo.' 'Now I am on the way to fortune.'\n\n[110] 'Quell' fruttivendolo'; 'quell' uomo'! 'quella donna!' a vulgar\nway of calling after people.\n\n[111] 'Spezziale,' a druggist ('droghiere' is a grocer). It is the\ncustom in Rome for the doctors of the poor to sit in the druggists'\nshops, ready to be called for.\n\n[112] 'Nasone,' a big nose.\n\n[113] 'Pimperte; Pamperte! Pumperte!'\n\n[114] 'Il Cicoriaro e la Principessa fatata.'\n\n[115] 'Fa una zompa;' 'zompa' for 'zomba,' properly a blow, a thump;\nhere, 'jumped down with a noise like a thump.'\n\n[116] Bacchettone di comando, suits this use of it better than does\nthe English equivalent.\n\n[117] 'Ecco il vecchio!' such abrupt interruptions, with change of\ntense, are often introduced with dramatic effect by the narrators. A\nsimilar one occurs at p. 133. 'He sounds the horn and One comes.'\n\n[118] 'E tutto andava benone;' 'bene,' well; 'benone,' superlatively\nwell.\n\n[119] 'La Somara.'\n\n[120] The 'mercante di Campagna' occupies the place of farmer in\nthe social system of Rome; that is, he produces and deals in grain\nand cattle; there is 'buttaro' (cattle breeder) besides; but the\ncharacteristics of each are so different that the one does not well\ntranslate the other.\n\n[121] 'Cortello' for 'coltello' (a knife). The substitution of r for\nl in a good many words is a common Romanism.\n\n[122] 'Dishperato' for 'disperato' ('out of himself with vexation'),\nis another Romanism; as also\n[123] 'Bashtonata' for 'bastonata' (a cudgelling); at least many\nRomans, particularly old-fashioned people, when using some words\nin which sp and st occur, put in an h on occasions requiring great\nvehemence of expression.\n\n[124] Zecchini. The zecchino was the gold standard coin in Rome before\nthat of the scudo was adopted. Its value was fixed in the reign of\nClement XIII., 1758, at two scudi and twenty bajocchi--something\nbetween 10s. and 11s.; it was current till a few years back; and\n'zecchini' is a common way of saying 'money' when a large sum is\nspoken of, just as we still talk of guineas.\n\n[125] 'Merenda' is a supplementary meal taken at any time of day. It\nis not exactly lunch, because the habit of taking lunch at one and\ndining late has not yet obtained to any great extent in Rome; and where\nit has, lunch is called 'd\u00e9je\u00fbner'; breakfast (i.e. a cup of coffee\nand a roll early in the morning) is always called 'colazione.' The\nestablished custom of Rome is dinner ('pranzo,' or 'desinare,') at\ntwelve, and supper ('cena') an hour or two after the Ave, varying,\ntherefore, according to the time of year, from six or seven till nine\nor ten, and even later. 'Merenda' is a light meal between 'pranzo'\nand 'cena' of not altogether general use, and chiefly on occasions of\ndriving outside the gates to spend the afternoon at a country villa\nor casino.\n\n[126] 'Soma' is a burden; 'somaro' or 'somura' an ass used for carrying\nburdens. Thus in the next line it is spoken of as having panniers on\nas a matter of course.\n\n[127] 'Che bell' insalatina; chi vuol insalatina; che bell'\ninsalatina!' a common form of crying. 'Che belle mela!' 'What fine\napples!' 'Che belle persiche!' or 'What fine peaches!' may be heard\nall the year round.\n\n[128] 'Il Matrimonio di Cajusse,' I should imagine Caius was the right\nreading. Italians, though they are so fond of clipping off the final\nvowel of their own words, whenever they get hold of a foreign word\nending in a consonant must needs always add a syllable on to it. The\nnarrator in this instance could not spell, and I write the word as she\npronounced it. Meeting with so close a counterpart of 'Aladdin's Lamp,'\nI cross-questioned the narrator very closely as to whether she had not\nread it, but she assured me most solemnly that her mother had told it\nher when she was not more than five years old; that it was impossible\nshe could have read it, as she could only read very imperfectly,\nonly a few easy sentences; she had never in her life read anything\nlong. I further elicited that it was possible her mother might have\nread it; but I am inclined to think she said this rather to improve\nmy idea of her family, than because she thought it was really the case.\n\n[129] 'Piastra.' In Melchiorri's 'Guida Metodica di Roma,' ed. 1856,\nin the list of moneys current the half-scudo is put down as 'commonly\ncalled mezza piastra.' I do not remember to have heard it so used\nmyself, though I have heard old people talk of piastres, the value\nof which would thus be the same as a scudo, or about five francs:\nan old inhabitant told me it was 7 1/2 bajocchi, more than a scudo.\n\n[130] 'Mago.' I asked the narrator what her idea of a 'mago' was,\nand she said, 'Something like a stregone (masculine of strega, witch),\nonly not quite so bad.'\n\n[131] Genii having no place in modern Italian mythology, the 'Genius\nof the Lamp' loses his identity here.\n\n[132] 'Posate,' spoons and forks. I spare the reader the enumeration\nof the Roman dishes which were detailed to me as figuring on the table,\nas I have had to quote many of them in other stories.\n\n[133] 'I always used to wonder,' observed the narrator very\npertinently, 'as my mother told me this, why they didn't rub the lamp\nagain and ask for what they wanted, instead of going about pawning\nthe posate. I suppose they had forgotten about it.'\n\n[134] 'Pezzente,' a sorry fellow; literally beggar.\n\n[135] 'Che ci penso io' is a saying ever in the mouth of a\nRoman. Whatever you may be giving directions about, they always\nstop you with 'Lasci far a me, che ci penso io' ('Leave it to me;\nI'll manage it.')\n\n[136] 'Tre ore di notte' means three hours after the evening Ave. If\nit was summer-time this would be about 11 P.M. A subject of the 'Gran\nSultan' being supposed to measure time by the Ave Maria is not one\nof the least bizarre of traditionary accretions.\n\n[137] 'Chincaglieria,' all kinds of small articles of metal-work.\n\n[138] 'Fravodo.' As I had never heard the word before, I was very\nparticular in making the narrator repeat it, to take it down. She\ndescribed it as a horn or trumpet, but I cannot meet with the word\nin any dictionary.\n\n[139] The Holy Babe.\n\n[140] 'Date mi un po' d'allogio;' lit., Give me a small quantity of\nlodging--a humble mode of expression.\n\n[141] 'Chi \u00e8?' ('Who's there'); but the humour of the expression\nhere lies in its being the invariable Roman custom to sing out 'Chi\n\u00e8?' and wait till 'Amici!' is answered, before any door is opened.\n\n[142] Comp. with Legend of the Marmolata in 'Household Stories from\nthe land of Hofer.'\n\n[143] 'Un pagnotto di polenta' was the expression used, meaning a\ngreat coarse loaf of Indian corn. The Roman poor have much the same\ncontempt for inferior bread that we meet with in the same class at\nhome, none eat 'seconds' who can possibly avoid it; but the pagnotto\ndi polenta is only eaten by the poorest peasants.\n\n[144] 'Strutto,' lard, enters into the composition of almost every\nRoman popular dish.\n\n[145] 'Che bolliva,' constantly applied in Roman parlance to solids\nas well as liquids.\n\n[146] The narrator was an admirable reciter, and as she uttered this\n'Vi sia concessa,' in a solemn and majestic manner, she raised her\nhand and made the sign of the cross with a rapid and facile gesture,\njust as she might have seen the Pope do as he drove through Rome.\n\n[147] 'Trattoria,' can only be translated by 'tavern,' but\nunfortunately the English word represents quite a different idea\nfrom the Roman. 'Tavern' suggests noise and riot, but a 'trattoria'\nis a place where a poor Roman will take his family to dine quietly\nwith him on a festa as a treat.\n\n[148] 'Death,' being feminine in Italian, has to be personified\nas a woman. The same occurs in a Spanish counterpart of this story\nwhich I have given under the title of 'Starving John the Doctor' in\n'Patra\u00f1as.' The Spanish counterpart of the rest of the story will be\nfound in 'Where one can dine two can dine' ('Un Convidado invida a\nciento') in the same series.\n\n[149] 'Olive the priest.' 'When we were children,' said the narrator,\n'my father used to tell us such a lot of stories of an evening,\nbut of them all the two we used to ask for most, again and again,\nand the only two I remember, were \"Mi butto,\" and \"Pret' Olivo.\" Do\nyou know \"Mi butto\"? We used to shudder at it, and yet we used to ask\nfor it.' I incautiously admitted I did know it, instead of acquiring\na fresh version. 'Then here is \"Pret' Olivo.\" I don't suppose I was\nmore than seven then, and now I am thirty-five, and I have never\nheard it since, but I'll make the best I can of it. Of course it is\nnot a true story; we knew that it couldn't be true, as anyone can see;\nbut it used to interest us children.'\n\n[150] 'Vaene brutto prete! Questa non \u00e8 roba per me.'\n\n[151] 'Brutto Plutone!' The traditional application of the name will\nnot have escaped the reader.\n\n[152] 'Holzhund,' I suppose, is used for wild dog.\n\n[153] Unquestionably a very exaggerated tradition of the aberrations\nand final submission to the Church of Abelard (Pietro Abelardo in\nItalian), some of whose writings were publicly burnt in Rome by the\nInquisition in 1140.\n\n[154] The Office of the Inquisition behind the Colonnade of\nSt. Peter's.\n\n[155] 'Libro di comando.' A book of divination.\n\n[156] St. John and Paul. The Church of the Passionists on the Coelian.\n\n[157] I.e. St. Iago di Compostella.\n\n[158] 'Scrittura,' a written compact.\n\n[159] 'Chierico' of course means a cleric, but in common parlance it\nis reserved for the boy who, though lay, wears a clerical dress for\nthe time he is serving mass, or attending to the church generally. In\nthe present instance it would probably be a youth in minor orders.\n\n[160] 'Paino' and 'paina' mean one, who, according to his or her\ncondition, ought to be dressed in the national style, but who does\naffect to dress like a gentleman or lady.\n\n[161]   'Chi va a Loreto\n        E non va a Cirollo,\n        Vede la Madre\n        E non vede il figliuolo.'\n\n[162] I took another opportunity of asking the one who was familiar\nwith Loreto, about Cirollo, and she explained its introduction into the\nstory to mean that he was not to pay a hasty visit, but a thorough one,\neven though it was done so rapidly. 'Cirollo,' she said, 'is a poor\nvillage with few houses, but the church is fine, and the Crucifix is\nreckoned miracolosissimo.' In Murray's map it is marked as Sirollo,\nclose by the sea, without even a pathway from Loreto, about five miles\nto the north; and he does not mention the place at all in his text.\n\nSubsequently I was talking with another who called herself a\nMarchegiana, i.e. from the March of Ancona, in which Loreto\nis situated, and boasted of having been born at Sinigallia, the\nbirthplace of Pio Nono. 'Have you ever been to Loreto?' I asked by\nway of beginning inquiry about Cirollo.\n\n'Yes; six times I have made the pilgrimage from Sinigallia, and always\non foot.' she replied with something of enthusiasm. 'And you who have\ntravelled so far, you have been there too, of course?'\n\n'Not yet,' I replied; 'but I mean to go one day;' and just as I was\ncoming to my question about Cirollo, she added of her own accord:\n\n'Mind you do, and mind when you go you go to Sirollo too (she\npronounced it Sirollo like the spelling in the map). 'Everyone who\ngoes to Loreto ought to go to Sirollo. There is a Crucifix there\nwhich is miracolosissimo.'\n\n[163] 'Quanto la mente dell' uomo.'\n\n[164] 'Dispetto,' an affront, rather than an injury.\n\n[165] 'Tira via, brutta bestia,' literally 'fire away'--is used in\nall senses the same as in English.\n\n[166] The question of night flights through the air, and more,\nwhether in the body or out of the body, than whether they were ever\neffected at all, was one of the most hotly contested questions of\ndemonographers. Tartarotti, lib. I. cap. viii. \u00a7 vi., winds up a\nlong account of the subject with the following:--'... So divided was\nopinion on the subject, not only of Catholics as against heterodox,\nbut between Catholics and Catholics, that after reading in Delrio 'qui\nh\u00e6c asserunt somnia esse et ludibrio certe peccant contra reverentiam\nEcclesi\u00e6 matri debitam,' and 'H\u00e6c opinio (somnia h\u00e6c esse) tanquam\nh\u00e6retica est reprobanda;' and in Bartolomeo Spina, 'Negare quod\ndiabolus possit portare homines de loco in locum est h\u00e6reticum;'\nyou may see in Emmanuel Rodriguez, a great theologian and canonist,\n'Peccat mortaliter qui credit veneficos aut veneficas vel striges\ncorporaliter per a\u00ebra vehi ad diversa loca, ut illi existimant;' while\nNavarro mildly says, 'Credere quod aliquando, licet raro, d\u00e6mon aliquis\nde loco in locum, Deo permittente, transportet non est peccatum.'\n\nTartarotti supplies a long list of writers who, in the course of the\nsixteenth and two following centuries, took the opposite sides on this\nquestion, and quotes from Dr. John Weir, (Protestant) physician to the\nDuke of Cleves (In Apol. sec. iv. p. 582), that the Protestants were\nmost numerous on the side which maintained that it was an actual and\ncorporeal and not a mental or imaginative transaction. Cesare Cant\u00f9\nhas likewise given an exposition of the treatment of the question in\n'Gli Eretici d'ltalia,' discorso xxxiii., and 'Storia Universale,'\nepoca xv. cap. 14, p. 488. In note 1 he gives a list of a dozen of\nthe most celebrated Protestant writers who upheld the actuality of\nthe witches' congress.\n\n[167] 'Bocca a terra.'\n\n[168] 'Accademia' used here for 'Conversazione.'\n\n[169] 'Pentiti!'\n\n[170] 'Discolo,' 'wild,' 'fast.'\n\n[171] The shrine of S. Iago di Compostella being traditionally known\nto the Roman poor as 'S. Giacomo di Galizia,' Galizia was not very\nunnaturally supposed by the narrator to be the name of a town.\n\n[172]   'Dovene siete, poveri pellegrini,\n        Quanti son' lunghi i vostri cammini?'\n\n[173]   'Avemo camminati monti e piani,\n        E siamo di Castello mont' Albano,\n        Andiamo cercando un figlio Giuliano.'\n\nA walled village, whether it had an actual castle or not, had the\nname of 'Castello;' and 'Castello' is the common name to the present\nday in Rome for the villages in the neighbourhood.\n\n[174] 'Mastri.'\n\n[175]   'Noi siamo i mastri! noi siamo i mastri!\n        Ch\u00e8 tanti ponti abbiamo fatti.'\n\n[176] 'Arruzzicatelo' was the word used. Ruzzica is a game played\nby rolling circles of wood of a certain thickness along a smooth\nalley. She tells him to roll the cheese in this way as an inducement\nto the dog to go over to try the strength of the bridge.\n\n[177] 'Uomicino,' a little man. As the narrator had come to the\nborders of Wonderland, this must, I think, be taken to be one of\nthose dwarfs--little men of the mountains, 'Bergm\u00e4nlein,' who have\nso large a place in German, especially in Tirolean mythology, but\nare so rarely to be met in that of Rome.\n\n[178] 'Una donna maestosa con un bambino in braccia; e questa era la\nMadonna, capisce.' This use of the verb capire to express 'you see,'\n&c., is a favourite Romanism; in Tuscany they use the verb intendere.\n\n[179] 'Donna trovata non fu mai buona.'\n\n[180] 'Il nonno accanto al fuoco.' Giving to understand that it was\nan old traditionary tale.\n\n[181] 'La Pescheria di San Francesco.' Pescheria, see p. 45. Many\nItalian convents are provided with such.\n\n[182] 'Sora' in this place does not mean 'sister'; it is an expression\nin Roman vernacular for which we have no equivalent, and is applied\nto respectable persons of the lower class who do not aspire to be\ncalled 'Signora,' 'Mrs.,' or 'Miss,' as with us. 'Sor' or 'Ser'\nis the masculine equivalent; we had it in use at p. 194.\n\n[183] The word used was 'candida,' and not 'bianca,' as expressive\nof purest white.\n\n[184] 'Sant' Antonio ed il Santo Bambino.'\n\n[185] I believe St. Anthony was never in Rome; but his genial winning\ncharacter made him so popular that the people speak of him as one\nof themselves.\n\n[186] St. Anthony's date is 1195-1231; so the idea of making his\nobserver a Protestant, and a smoker to boot, is very quaint, and is\nan instance of how chronological order gets confused by tradition.\n\n[187] 'Fraticello'; 'good little friar.' An affectionate way of\nspeaking of Franciscans often used.\n\n[188] 'Mag\u00e0ri!' a very strong form of 'indeed.'\n\n[189] 'La strapazzava,' a word particularly applied to overworking\na horse.\n\n[190] 'Di una rara bellezza.'\n\n[191] 'Era disperata.'\n\n[192] 'Un sacco crudo,' a loose garment made of harsh sackcloth that\nhad not been dressed.\n\n[193] Handkerchiefs are used so habitually for tying up parcels in\nRome, that the narrator thought it worth while to specify that this\none was a 'fazzaletto di naso.'\n\n[194] The life is thus given in Butler:--'Margaret was a native of\nAlviano in Tuscany. The harshness of a stepmother and her own indulged\npropension to vice cast her headlong into the greatest disorders. The\nsight of the carcase of a man, half-putrefied, who had been her\ngallant, struck her with so great a fear of the Divine judgments,\nand with so deep a sense of the treachery of the world, that she in\na moment became a perfect penitent. The first thing she did was to\nthrow herself at her father's feet, bathed in tears, to beg his pardon\nfor her contempt of his authority and fatherly admonitions. She spent\nthe days and nights in tears; and to repair the scandal she had given\nby her crimes, she went to the parish church of Alviano with a rope\nabout her neck, and there asked public pardon for them. After this\nshe repaired to Cortona and made her most penitent confession to a\nfather of the Order of S. Francis, who admired the great sentiments of\ncompunction with which she was filled, and prescribed her austerities\nand practices suitable to her fervour. Her conversion happened in\nthe year 1274, the twenty-fifth of her age.... This model of true\npenitents, after twenty-three years spent in severe penance, twenty of\nthem in the religious habit, being worn out by austerities and consumed\nby the fire of divine love, died on the 22nd of February 1297.'\n\n[195] 'Vecchiaccia'; the addition accia implies that she was bad:\nprobably a witch was intended.\n\n[196] 'La Monica Beatrice.' 'Monica,' provincialism or vulgarism for\n'monaca,' a nun.\n\n[197] 'Albagia,' self-esteem, vanity.\n\n[198] 'Rotara,' equivalent to portress; it alludes to her having charge\nof the 'ruota,' or 'turniquet,' through which things are passed in\nand out and messages conveyed through a convent-wall, without the\nnun having to present herself at the door.\n\n[199] 'Fattore,' an agent employed by most convents to attend to\ntheir secular affairs.\n\n[200] 'Suora' is the received word for a 'Sister' in a\nconvent. 'Sister,' the natural relationship, is 'Sorella.'\n\n[201] 'Grascia e ann\u00f2na' are two old words meaning all kinds of\nmeat and vegetable (including grain) food. It was the title of one\ndepartment of the local administration. There was a great dearth in\nRome in the year 1590-1, mentioned in the histories of the times. It\nis probable the people would ascribe to the head of the department\nthe fault of the calamity.\n\n[202] These people generally call the popes by their family names. This\n'Papa Medici' would be Pius IV., who reigned from 1559 to 1566.\n\n[203] 'Brutte anime,' 'ugly souls.'\n\n[204] All legends have doubtless some foundation in fact; but\nunfortunately for the detail of this one, the arms up in the fa\u00e7ade\nof the said Churches, 'Dei Miracoli' and 'di Monte Santo'--are the\narms of a Cardinal Gastaldi or Castaldi, who rebuilt them about a\nhundred years later than St. Philip's time. Alexander VII. having\nrebuilt the Flaminian Gate, or Porta del Popolo, the insignificance\nof these two churches became more noticeable than before; but he\ndid not survive to carry out his intention of rebuilding them. This\nwas subsequently performed by Cardinal Gastaldi.--Maroni, xii. 147,\nxxviii. 185; Panciroli, 169; Melchiorri, 254 and 420.\n\n[205] 'Impicciare,' 'entangle myself with,' 'interfere with'--a very\nfavourite Romanism.\n\n[206] 'Impicciare,' again here.\n\n[207] 'Campagnola,' a peasant of the Campagna near Rome.\n\n[208] A rubbio is between four and five acres.\n\n[209] St. Philip lived and taught for thirty-three years at the Church\nof S. Girolamo della Carit\u00e0, not very far from the vegetable market in\nCampo de' Fiori, all the streets about containing shops much frequented\nby the country people when they come up to Rome with their vegetables.\n\n[210] 'Scocciare,' to persevere to weariness; to din.\n\n[211] 'Vassalli,' in the older dictionaries 'vassallo' is only defined\nas a vassal; but in modern Roman parlance it means a scamp, a vagabond.\n\n[212] 'Il Perdon di Asisi.' The indulgences attached to visiting\nthe Church of S. Maria degli Angeli near Asisi (otherwise called the\nPorziuncula), received this name on occasion of its consecration on\nthe 1st and 2nd August, 1225. The visit on the anniversary became\none of the most popular of Italian pilgrimages.\n\n[213] San Felice di Cantaliccio, 1513-87, is a very popular\nsaint among the Romans, for one reason because he was born of poor\nparentage. Though of low origin, and only a lay brother in his convent,\nhe was frequently consulted by important people on account of his piety\nand prudence. St. Charles Borromeo took great note of his advice. He\nwas a contemporary of St. Philip.\n\n[214] St. Vincent Ferrer, who is so popular a saint among the Romans,\nso continually coupled with St. Philip and his acts, and always spoken\nof as if he had all his life been an inhabitant of Rome, lived just\ntwo centuries earlier (1351-1419) than the 'Apostle of Rome.' Though\nhe went about preaching and reforming all over Europe, and even in\nEngland and Ireland at the invitation of Henry IV., he was yet never\nin Rome at all, though much at Avignon under the so-called Benedict\nXIII., his countryman, with whom he used all his influence to make\nhim put an end to the schism.\n\n[215] Innocent IX., who reigned 1590-1, took a great deal of notice\nof St. Philip. It is curious the narrator should have been so far\nout concerning St. Vincent and so correct about this.\n\n[216] 'Un vecchietto e un'altro.'\n\n[217] 'Rotonda,' the vulgar name of the Pantheon, gives its appellation\nto the market which is held in the 'Salita de' Cresconzi' and other\nadjoining streets.\n\n[218] 'Gola,' the throat; used for 'gluttony.'\n\n[219] Pius VI., who reigned 1775-1799.\n\n[220] S. Joseph Labre was born at Boulogne, of parents of the lower\nmiddle class, in 1749, and died 1783. He came to Rome on a pilgrimage\nwhen young, and remained here the rest of his days, passing his time\nin prayer and contemplation in the various shrines of Rome. He every\nyear made the pilgrimage to Loreto on foot. He was supported entirely\nby the alms of the people.\n\n[221] In the Rione Monti are the streets chiefly inhabited by the\npoor and working classes of Rome. Joseph Labre passed his life in\ntheir midst, and they always speak of him with affection, as a hero of\ntheir own order. It only needs to go to the Church of the Madonna de'\nMonti on the day of his 'Patrocinio' to see how popular he is.\n\n[222] The stations of the 'Way of the Cross' are arranged round\nthe interior of the Coliseum; and until out-of-door devotions were\nforbidden by the new Government, the Via Crucis was constantly\nperformed here, led by a Capuchin and by various confraternities,\nand always well attended.\n\n[223] Le dodici Parole della Verit\u00e0.\n\n[224] 'Uno e primo \u00e8 Domeniddio, che sempre c'aiuta.'\n\n[225] 'Due sono le chiavi del cielo, c'\u00e8 l'oro.'\n\n[226] 'Tre sono tre Patriarchi Abramine, Giacobbe, e Isaache.'\n\n[227] 'Quattro sono le quattro colonne che il mondo mantiene; Luca,\nGiovanni, Marco, e Matteo.'\n\n[228] 'Cinque sono le piaghe de Ges\u00f9 Cristo.'\n\n[229] 'Sei sono i sei galli che cantorno in Galilea.'\n\n[230] 'Sette sono i sette cerini ch' ardorno in Gerusalemme.'\n\n[231] 'Otto \u00e8 l'ottava di Cristo.'\n\n[232] 'Nove sono i nove cori degli angeli.'\n\n[233] 'Dieci \u00e8 la diecenna di Cristo.'\n\n[234] 'Undici \u00e8 la coronazione di spine.'\n\n[235] 'Dodici sono i dodici Apostoli.'\n\n[236] 'Il Morto della Quercia.'\n\n[237] 'Cammin\u00f2, cammin\u00f2, cammin\u00f2;' see note 6, p. 13.\n\n[238] 'Quattro arquebuzate.'\n\n[239] 'Frateria,' a popular word for a monastery.\n\n[240] 'La Lettera del Morto.'\n\n[241] 'Bussola,' a box for alms, &c.\n\n[242] 'Painone,' 'Paino'; a sneering way of naming a well-dressed\nperson. 'Painone,' augmentative of the same.\n\n[243] 'Sua Eccellenza.' The cant form of address of the Roman beggar.\n\n[244] 'L'Anima Bianca.'\n\n[245] 'A vitalizia' is an agreement by which persons pay a sum down\nand are taken in to board for the rest of their lives.\n\n[246] 'La Festa dei Morti,' November 2.\n\n[247] 'Ch\u00e8 \u00e8 ora dell' orazione.' I give this very quaint idea in\nthe words in which it was told to me.\n\n[248] 'Era altro che un festino, il chiarore.' The lighting up of\na theatre for a public masqued ball would naturally be the highest\nimpression of brightness for a poor man in Rome. 'Altro che' is his\nfavourite word in the sense of 'no comparison.' 'Altro!' alone stands\nfor 'I should think so!' 'Isn't it indeed!' &c.\n\n[249] Since the invasion of September 1870, Rome has been placarded\nwith announcements of mediums who may be consulted on every possible\noccasion. I give the whole story as it was told me, but I have, of\ncourse, no means of knowing how the s\u00e9ance was conducted, and there\nis every likelihood the man would be so full of the strange occurrence\nthat he would begin by letting out all on which he came to it to seek\nconfirmation. The introduction of these mediums has been welcomed as\nsupplying the means of gratifying that craving after the supernatural\nwhich was denied them under the former administration. 'Witchcraft\nwas forbidden by the former law, therefore we may suppose it was\nwrong,' reason the less intelligent and those who wish to be deceived;\n'spiritismo is allowed by the law which rules us to-day, therefore we\nmay suppose it is right;' and thus we are beginning to see here what\nCant\u00f9 had written of other parts of Italy and Europe: 'But who will\nfeel the courage to contemn the follies of another age when he sees\nthe absurd credulity of our own, which upon similar manifestations\nfounds other theories.... Recent writers on the subject (see in\nparticular, Allan Kardec, 'Le Spiritisme \u00e0 sa plus simple expression,'\n'Le Livre des esprits,' &c.), themselves acknowledge that the oracles\nand pythonesses of old, and the genii, sorcerers, and magicians of\nlater ages, were the predecessors of these mediums. We have therefore\ncome back to that which we ridicule in our ancestors.'\n\n[250] 'La serpe bianca;' 'serpe' is of both genders, but is most\ncommonly used in the feminine as in the common saying 'allevarsi la\nserpe in seno,' to nurture a serpent in one's bosom.\n\n[251] 'Per far legna.' 'Fare' is brought in on all occasions. Bazzarini\ngives 59 closely printed columns of instances of its various uses;\nhere it means to cut wood for burning; 'legno' is wood; 'legna,'\nwood for burning.\n\n[252] 'S'alzer\u00e0 un morto.'\n\n[253] S. Agostino is the favourite with the people of all the churches\nof Rome.\n\n[254] 'Brutti assassini.' In a country where the cultus of 'il bello'\nhas been so well understood, 'ugly' has naturally come to be used as\na term of deepest reproach.\n\n[255] 'Si, si, questo \u00e8 positivo, non \u00e8 donnicciolara, \u00e8 positivo.'\n\n[256] This kind of spell seems analogous to one of which a curious\naccount is preserved by Menghi (Compendio dell'Arte Essorcista,\nlib. ii. cap. xl.), which I quote, because it has a local connexion\nwith Rome, and there are not many such. An inhabitant of Dachono in\nBohemia, he says, brought his son, a priest, to Rome in the Pontificate\nof Pius II. (1458-64) to be exorcised, as all relief failed in his own\ncountry; a woman whom he had reproved for her bad life had bewitched\nhim, adding, 'that the spell (maldicio) was imposed on him by her\nunder a certain tree, and if it was not removed in the same way,\nhe could not otherwise be set free; and she would not reveal under\nwhat tree it was.' The spell acted upon him only at such times as he\nwas about to exercise his sacred ministry, and then it impeded his\nactions, forced him to put his tongue out at the cross, &c. &c. 'The\nmore earnest the devotion with which I strive to give myself to\nprayer,' he said, 'so much the more cruelly the devil rends me'\n(mi lacera). In St. Peter's, the narrator goes on to say, is a\ncolumn brought from the Temple of Solomon, by means of which many\npossessed persons have been liberated, because our Lord had leant\nagainst it when teaching there, and it was thought that this might\nbe sufficiently potent to represent the fatal tree. He was brought\nto it, however, in vain. Being tied to it, and asked to point out\nthe spot where Christ had touched it, the spirit which possessed him\nreplied by making him bite it on a certain spot with his teeth and say,\n'Qui stette, qui stette,' (here He stood) in Italian, although he did\nnot know a word of the language, and was obliged to inquire what the\nwords he had uttered meant. But the spell, nevertheless, was not got\nrid of thus. It was then understood that the spirit must be of that\nkind of which Christ had said 'he goeth not out except by prayer and\nfasting;' and a pious and venerable bishop, taking compassion on the\nman, devoted himself to prayer and fasting for him all through Lent;\nand thus he was delivered and sent back to his own country rejoicing.\n\n[257] 'Fattore,' an agent; a man who attends to the business and\npecuniary affairs of a convent.\n\n[258] 'Suora Maria tale.' Mary being such a favourite name, it has\nto be generally qualified by a second name being appended to it by\nway of distinction.\n\n[259] 'Fiaccole di paglia.'\n\n[260] 'Ma che!' is a very strong and indignant form of 'No!' about\nequivalent to 'What are you thinking of?' 'How can you?' In Tuscany\nthey say, 'Che! Che!'\n\n[261] 'Fantasimi,' for 'fantasmi,' apparitions.\n\n[262] 'Spirito.'\n\n[263] 'Il fantasimo di S. Giovanni.'\n\n[264] 'Cacciatore' is a huntsman or sportsman of any kind; but in\nRome it designates especially a man of a roving and adventurous class\nwhose occupation in life is to shoot game for the market according\nto the various seasons, as there are large tracts of country where\ngame is not preserved.\n\n[265] 'Falcaccio,' a horrid, great hawk.\n\n[266] Cancellieri (Mercato, \u00a7 xvi.) mentions the actual finding of\nsuch a treasure; or at least of 'thousands of pieces of gold money,\nin a hole leading to a drain of the fountain in Piazza Madama, on\nMay 30, 1652, by a boy who had accidentally dropped a toy into this\nhole.' One such fact would afford substance to a multitude of such\nfictions: though they doubtless had their origin in the discovery of\nmineral wealth.\n\n[267] See conversation at the end of the 'Serpe bianca.' Further\ndetails of a similar nature were given me in connection with a number\nof brigand stories which I have in MS.\n\n[268] 'Monti,' Rione Monti, the most populous district in Rome.\n\n[269] 'Papetto,' equal to two pauls; about three halfpence more than a\n(silver) lira or franc. In use in Rome until the monetary convention\nwith France in 1868.\n\n[270] 'Cataletto,' a kind of large roomy coffin, with a hollow\nwagonheaded lid, in which dead or wounded persons are carried.\n\n[271] 'Barretta' or 'bara,' is the bier on which the 'cataletto'\nis carried; but it is most often made all in one, and either word is\nused for either, as also 'feretro.' 'Aver la bocca sulla bara,' is\n'to have one foot in the grave.'\n\n[272] 'Paino,' see n. 3, p. 264.\n\n[273] It must be a very quaint condition of mind which can imagine\nthat a fortune of something like three millions sterling can be\nquietly removed in secret in gold coin from a cellar to a bedroom in\nthe small hours of the night. But then to persons like the narrator\na few pieces of gold seem a fortune.\n\n[274] I do not give the names because, though the tradition is probably\ntrue enough of somebody, the particular names introduced were decidedly\nincorrect historically.\n\n[275] Litta, 'Storia delle Famiglie italiane,' traces that from\nthe beginning the Colonna family was always Ghibeline. The present\nrepresentatives of the house, however, are reckoned Papalini.\n\n[276] 'Zoccolo,' a wooden sandal kept on the foot by a leather strap\nover the instep. It is worn by certain 'scalsi' or 'barefooted'\nfriars, hence called by the people 'zoccolanti.' The street near\nPonte Sisto in Rome, called Via delle Zoccolette, received its name\nfrom a convent of nuns there who also wore 'zoccoli.'\n\n[277] That Sciarra Colonna headed a band of 'spadassini' against\nBoniface VIII., and made himself the tool of Philippe le Bel, is of\ncourse true to history, as also that he held him imprisoned for a\ntime at Anagni. The Pontiff's biographer, Tosti, mentions however\nonly to refute them, 'le favole Ferretiane,' to which Sismondi,\n'Storia delle Republiche italiane,' gives currency, and which embody\nthe floating tradition in the text. 'Ferreto da Vicenza,' writes Tosti,\n'narrates that a kind of poison was administered to this great Pontiff,\nwhich put him in a state of phrenzy; the servant who waited on him,\nalso, was sent away, and being left alone in the room he is supposed\nto have gnawed at a stick (in another allusion to the same fable--at\npage 293--he says, 'his fingers' as in the text), and struck his\nhead against the wall so desperately that his white hairs were\nall stained with blood; finally, that he suffocated himself under\nthe counterpane invoking Beelzebub. But when we think how Boniface\narrived at extreme old age, enfeebled with reverses; how, shut up in\na room alone, there was no one to be witness to the alleged gnawing\nand knocking and Satanic invocations, and how that the manner of his\ndeath was quite differently related by eye-witnesses, I do not know\nfor whom Sismondi could have thought he was writing when he marred\nhis history by inserting such a fable. What certainly happened, and\nit is certified by Cardinal Stefaneschi, who was present, and by the\nReport afterwards drawn up of the acts of Boniface--was, that 'he\nwas lodged in the Vatican at the time of his death, and breathed his\nlast tranquilly. The bed of the dying Pontiff was surrounded by eight\ncardinals and by other distinguished persons (Process. Bonif. p. 37,\np. 15), to whom, according to the custom of his predecessors, he made\nconfession of faith, affirming, however enfeebled his voice, that he\nhad lived in that faith, and wished to die in it, a Catholic. Consoled\nwith the Viaticum of the Sacraments he gave up his soul to God,\nweary with the prolonged struggle he had sustained for the rights of\nthe Church, ... thirty-five days after his imprisonment at Anagni'\n(vol. ii. p. 286-7). Platina goes into less detail, but also records\nthat he died in Rome (Le vite de' Pontefici, Venice, 1674, p. 344). The\nmagnanimous stedfastness evinced by Boniface when attacked by Colonna\nand Nogaret, all abandoned as he was by human aid (detailed by Tosti,\np. 276, et seq.), could not but have been succeeded by a grander\nclosing scene than that imagined by Ferreto. Maroni (vi. 17-18) not\nonly narrates that he survived the Anagni affair to return to Rome,\nbut that with great Christian charity he ordered Nogaret, who had\nbeen taken prisoner by the Romans in the meantime, to be released\nfrom confinement; and [xiv. 283] that he could have had no poison\nadministered to him at Anagni, for all the time he was imprisoned he\nwould eat nothing but eggs on purpose to be proof against it. The best\ndisproof of the story, however, is that given by Tosti (p. 296-7). In\nthe clearing for the rebuilding of the nave of St. Peter's, 302 years\nafter the death of Boniface, his sepulchre was opened and the grave\nthen revealed the truth. It so happened that his body had scarcely\nundergone any change, and those who stood by could hence depose that\nboth his head and his hands were quite perfect; there were no marks\nor blows on the former, and so far from his finger-tips being gnawed,\nthey noticed that the nails even were particularly long. The face\nalso wore a peculiarly placid expression.\n\nSeveral contemporary writers cited by Tosti tell, however, that\nBenedict XI., Boniface's successor, died of poison believed to have\nbeen administered by Sciarra Colonna at the instigation of Philippe le\nBel. But unfortunately for the tradition in the text Moroni [xiv. 283],\nwho also mentions this, adds that Sciarra Colonna died in exile as he\ndeserved. The two Cardinals Colonna, however, who had been exiled with\nthe rest of the family, were reinstated by Benedict XI., and Clement\nV. in 1305 restored the other members of it to their possessions in\nthe Roman States, where they made themselves obnoxious enough during\nthe Papal residence at Avignon, and were as hostile to Rienzi as they\nhad ever been to the Popes.\n\n[278] Donna Olimpia Pamfili, nata Maidalchini, wife of the brother\nof Innocent X.\n\n[279] Cancellieri Mercato, \u00a7 ix. note 7.\n\n[280] He had not, however, been originally intended for the Church;\nhad been General of the Pontifical forces before he was Cardinal,\nand was only in Deacon's orders.\n\n[281] His simplicity was the subject of many contemporary mots and\nanecdotes; e.g. at the time of his elevation to the purple the Pasquin\nstatue had been temporarily lost to view by a hoarding put up for the\nerection of a neighbouring palace; 'Marforio' was supposed to express\nhis condolence for the eclipse of his rival in the following distich:\n\n            'Non piangere Pasquino\n        Ch\u00e8 sar\u00e0 tuo compagno Maidalchino.'\n\nHis want of capacity seems however to have been compensated by his\ngoodness of heart.\n\n[282] Cancellieri Mercato, \u00a7 viii. As I have been desirous to put\nnothing in the text but what has reached myself by verbal tradition,\nI will add some no less interesting details collected by Cancellieri,\nin this place.\n\nIt was at her house in Piazza Navona that Bernini was rehabilitated\nin his character of first sculptor and architect of his time. 'Papa\nPamfili,' though only the son of a tailor, (A certain Niccolo Caferri\nwas much ridiculed for the spirit of adulation with which he pretended\nto trace up Innocent X.'s genealogy to Pamphilus, king of Doris, 300\nyears before the birth of Rome. But the Pope himself was so little\nashamed of his origin that Cancellieri tells us he took a piece of\ncloth for one of his armorial bearings in memory of it.) was yet a\npatron of art. Highly famed under Urban VIII. the preceding Pontiff,\nBernini had been misrepresented by his rivals to Innocent. In an\nunpublished Diary of Giacinto Gigli, Cancellieri finds that he was\ntaken so seriously ill on St. Peter's Day, 1641 (This date, however,\nmust be incorrect, as Innocent X. only began to reign in 1644. This\ngrandiose Campanile is described at length, and a plate of it given\nin Fontana, 'Descrizione del tempio Vaticano,' p. 262, et seq. It was\n360 ft. in height.) that his life was for some time despaired of,\nin consequence of his Campanile--a specimen one of two he had designed\nfor St. Peter's--being disapproved by the Pope and ordered to be taken\ndown. Another cognate tradition he gives from a MS. Diary of Valerio\nis, that in digging the foundations for this tower a 'canale d'acqua'\nwas discovered deeper than the bed of the Tiber and wide enough to\ngo on it in a boat; Mgr. Costaguti, maggiordomo of his Holiness,\ntold me about it himself, and he had had himself let down to see\nit. As it had a sandy bottom, it washed away the foundations of the\ntower, and rendered it impossible to leave it standing. The water\ncame from Anguillara' (on Lake Bracciano, about 28 miles) 'and the\nPope had the old conduit reconstructed and used the water for many\nfountains in imitation of Sixtus V. (He does not specify what pope,\nand the wording used seems to imply Innocent X., but this aqueduct\nis always ascribed to Paul V., twenty years earlier, and is called\nthe Acqua Paola.) He goes on to add an extraordinary account of\na Dragon quite of the legendary type, that was found in charge of\nthis water, and was killed, not by a hero or a knight, but, by the\nlabourers working at the conduit.\n\nIt was Innocent X.'s ambition to remove the great obelisk (since\ncalled 'Obelisco Pamfilio') which lay in three pieces in the\nCirco di Massenzio, near the Appian Way, and to set it up in Piazza\nNavona. Bernini being, as I have said, in disfavour, other architects\nwere commissioned to offer designs for the work; but the Pope was\nnot satisfied with any of them, and the matter stood over. Meantime\nPiombino (Niccol\u00f2 Ludovisi) who had married a niece of the Pope's, and\nwho was a great friend of Bernini, privately instructed him to send him\na model of what he would suggest for the purpose, saying he wanted it\nfor his own satisfaction, lest Bernini should refuse the unauthorised\ncompetition. Bernini then produced the elaborate conception which has\nbeen so warmly extolled by some and so hastily blamed by others, but\nwhich cannot be judged without a prolonged study of all the poetical\nallegories and conceits it was his intention to embody.\n\nThe Pope went to the house of Donna Olimpia in Piazza Navona to dine\nafter the Procession to the Minerva on the Annunciation, (Described\nin Cancellieri, 'Descrizione delle Cappelle Ponteficie,' cap. x.)\nand she placed the model in a room through which the Pope must pass\nafter dinner. It did not fail to arrest his notice, and he was so much\nstruck with it that he spent half an hour examining it in detail and\nlistening to the explanation of its emblematical devices. At last he\nexclaimed, 'It can be by no other hand than Bernini's! and he must be\nemployed in spite of all that may be said against him!' From that time\nBernini was once more all that he had been before in Rome (Mercato,\n\u00a7 ix.). When Innocent saw the great work completed, and the water of\nthe four rivers for the first time gushing from it, he declared to\nBernini he had given him pleasure great enough to add ten years to\nhis life; and he sent over to Donna Olimpia for a hundred 'Doppie'\n(In Melchiorri's table of Roman moneys he gives the value (in 1758,\na hundred years later) of a doppio as 4 scudi 40 bajocchi; and of\na doppia at 6 scudi, 42 bajocchi. It appears to be the latter the\nPope sent for.) to distribute among the workmen. Subsequently he\nhad a medal struck with the inscription Agonalium cruore abluto Aqua\nVergine, in allusion to the games of which Piazza Navona is supposed\n(Dyer says it was the Stadium of Domitian, and Becker, that there\nis no proof it was ever a circus.) to have been the scene, and the\n'Vergine' aqueduct from which the fountains were supplied. 'Papa\nPamfili' also restored St. John Lateran, and undertook many other\nworks, but was somewhat hampered by the discontent of the people at\nthe expense, expressed in the following pasquinades:\n\n        'Noi volemo altro che guglie e fontane:\n        Pane volemo, pane! pane! pane!'\n\nand\n\n        'Ut lapides isti panes fiant!'\n\nTo return to Donna Olimpia. One of the pasquinades on her preserved in\nCancellieri from Gigli's diary, refers to an accusation against her,\nthat she had been very liberal both to religious communities and to\nthe people until her brother-in-law (Cancellieri calls Innocent\nher cognato, and cognato in common conversation now is used for a\ncousin. Bazzarini explains it as 'any relationship by marriage.')\nwas made Pope, and that when that object was attained she ceased\nher bounty. Pasquin wrote upon this, 'Donna Olimpia fuerat olim pia,\nnunc impia.'\n\nAnother declared that the said brother-in-law 'Olympiam potius quam\nOlympum respicere videbatur,' an accusation he declares to have been\ninvented solely for the sake of punning, and without any truth, on\nfaith of the character given him by his biographers, and of the fact\nthat he was more than seventy-one when raised to the Papacy, and so\ndeformed and ugly that Guido put his portrait under the feet of the\narchangel in his famous picture of St. Michael. (Mercato, Appendix,\nn. 4 to N. x.) She was, however, sometimes inexcusable in her haughty\ncaprices, as, for instance, when she invited five and twenty Roman\nladies to see a pageant, and then asked only eight of them to sit down\nto table with her, leaving the remainder 'mortificate alle finestre;'\nand frequently more free than choice in her mots. Her grandchildren\nseem to have inherited this freedom of speech; Gigli (quoted by\nCancellieri, Mercato \u00a7 xvi. and xx.) records in his Diary that the\neldest of them, Giambattista, being asked one day by the Pope, who\ntook great notice of him, if he had seen St. Agnese in Piazza Navona,\nwhich he was then building, replied (though only seven years old), 'I\nhave not seen it yet; but you, if you don't make haste, won't live to\nsee it completed.' It would seem to have been a popular prophecy which\nthe child had caught up, and it so happens that the event bore it out.\n\nThere is nothing, however, which shows the heartless character of Donna\nOlimpia more glaringly than her refusal to pay a farthing to bury the\nPope, alleging she was 'only a poor widow!' and this, though the Pope\nhad not only 'favoured her so much as to endanger his reputation,'\n(MS. life of his successor Alex. VII. by Card. Pallavicini, quoted\nby Novaes: Storia de' Sommi Pontefici, x. 61.) but had handed to her\nall his disposable property on his deathbed. Donna Olimpia so utterly\nabandoned his body that it was carried down into a lumber-room where\nworkmen kept their tools, and one poor labourer had the charity to\nbuy a tallow candle to burn beside it, and another paid some one\nto watch it, to keep the mice off which abounded there. Finally,\na Mgr. Scotti, his maggiordomo, paid for a coffin of 'albuccio,'\n(Nothing better than deal, I believe.) and a former maggiordomo,\nwhom he had dispossessed, gave five scudi (returning good for evil)\nto pay the expenses of burying him. It was not till twelve years\nlater that he had a fitting funeral in S. Maria dell' Anima.\n\nWhen a few months after Innocent's death Donna Olimpia endeavoured\nto put herself on her old footing at the Vatican Court, by sending\na valuable present of some gold vases to Alexander VII., that\nPope testified his appreciation of her by returning her offering;\nadding the message that she was not to take the trouble to visit his\npalace, as it was no place for women. (Mercato, \u00a7 xxi.) There was\nsubsequently some angry correspondence between her and this Pope\nconcerning the delays occasioned by her parsimony in completing\nthe church in Piazza Navona, and the consequent obstruction of the\nPiazza, a great inconvenience to the public on account of its use as a\nmarket-place. Finally he banished her from Rome, fixing her residence\nat Orvieto, where she fell a victim to the plague two years after.\n\nHer palace in Piazza Navona became in 1695 the residence of Lord\nCastlemaine, ambassador of James II. to the Holy See. He had an ox\nroasted whole before it, and other bounties distributed to the people\non occasion of the birth of 'The Pretender.'\n\n[283] An argument worthy to take rank beside the famous one of\n'Mrs. Brown' concerning Noah's Ark.\n\n[284] I said this, really thinking at the moment there was such a\nstatue surmounting the apex of the pediment of the fa\u00e7ade; but it\nafterwards came to mind and I have since verified it on the spot,\nthat the statues on the pediment represent the twelve Apostles with\nChrist in the centre, and there is no female figure there. Among the\nnumerous statues of saints surmounting the colonnade, are a small\nproportion of female saints, but no one at all prominent.\n\n[285] The Marescotti were a noble family of Bologna, the second city\nof the Pontifical Dominions; there were two cardinals of the name.\n\n[286] 'Il buon uomo di loro padre.'\n\n[287] 'Faceva il diavolo,' lit. 'raised the devil.'\n\n[288] 'In quei tempi antichi ubbedirono le figlie, capisce.' 'Capisce,'\nlit. 'understand,' equivalent to 'you see.'\n\n[289] 'Puzza--puzza di peccato!' Lit. 'It stinks--it stinks of\nsin.' (See n. 5, p. 13.)\n\n[290] I give the story, as near as possible, in the words which\nthe pious faith of the narrator prompted her to use. The success of\nthe final results of a measure may prove that what seemed tyranny\nwas really prudent foresight; the contemporary views of parental\nresponsibility must also be taken into account. But it is impossible\nfor the modern English mind to sympathise readily with so violent an\ninterference with natural instincts.\n\n[291] 'A mano, a mano.'\n\n[292] 'Catenella,' lit. 'little chain,' an instrument of penance worn\nby some persons on the arm or waist.\n\n[293] The following are briefly the authentic particulars of her life\nfrom Moroni, xxx. 194. She was daughter of Marc Antonio Mariscotti\nand Ottavia Orsini, born in 1535, and baptised by the name of\nClarice. Although brought up in the fear of God and led to appreciate\nholiness, her youth was passed in worldliness and vanity. Her younger\nsister having been asked in marriage before her, she was so much vexed\nand annoyed that she became insupportable at home, on which account her\nfather proposed to her to become a nun in the convent of S. Bernardino\nat Viterbo, where she had been educated, and she adapted herself\nto his counsel, though without any personal inclination for it. At\nthe end of her noviciate she made her father arrange that she should\nhave a room of her own magnificently furnished. Sister Giacinta lived\nten years thus a religious in name but not in mind. Nevertheless she\nwas not without virtue, for she was always obedient to her superior\nas she had been to her parents; and her modesty, purity, and respect\nfor holy things was observed by all. A serious illness was to her the\ncall of grace; having given up to the abbess of the convent all the\nthings that had been brought in for her use by special privilege,\nshe devoted herself to severe penance and continual meditation. On\noccasion of a contagious disease with which Viterbo was afflicted,\nshe gave abundant proof of her charity towards her neighbour, for\nshe founded two societies, the object of one of which was to collect\nassistance for the convalescent and those who had fallen into reduced\ncircumstances; the other to support a hospital built to receive the\nsick. These two societies, which she called 'Oblates of Mary,' still\ncontinue (the date of Moroni's work is 1845) in full activity.\n\n[294] The statue called by this name was not originally found\nin its present situation. The shop of the tailor Pasquino was in\nthe Via in Parione, a turning out of the Via del Governo Vecchio,\nsome little distance off, nor was it discovered at all till after\nPasquino's death. At his time it was buried unperceived in the\npavement of the street, and the inequalities of its outline afforded\nstepping-stones by means of which passengers picked their way through\nthe puddles! Cancellieri (Mercato, appendix, N. iii.)] quotes a passage\nfrom a certain Tibaldeo di Ferrara, quoted in a book, his dissertation\nconcerning the author of which is too long to quote. This Tibaldeo,\nhowever, says, 'as the street was being repaired, and I had the shop\nthat was Pasquino's made level, the trunk of a statue, probably of a\ngladiator, was found, and the people immediately gave it his name.' He,\nhowever, quotes from other writers mention of other sites for its\ndiscovery mostly somewhat nearer to the present situation. The site of\nthe present Palazzo Braschi was then occupied by the so-called Torre\nOrsini, a building of a very different ground-plan. Cancellieri quotes\nfrom more than one MS. diary that at the time the Marquis de Cr\u00e9quy\ncame to Rome as ambassador of Louis XIII. in 1633, the Palazzo de'\nOrsini, where he was lodged, was designated as 'sopra Pasquino.' And\nagain from another MS. diary, that in 1728, when the palace was\nbought by the Duca di Bracciano-Odoscalchi, the same designation\nremained in use. In the Diary of Cracas, under date March 19, 1791,\nis an entry detailing the care with which the Pasquino statue was\nremoved to a pedestal prepared for it in front of Palazzo Pamfili\nduring the completion of the contiguous portion of the Palazzo\nBraschi, and its restoration is duly entered on the 14th March of\nthe same year. (There is clearly a typographical error about one\nof these dates, which could doubtless be corrected by reference to\n'Notizie delle due famose statue di un fiume e di Patroclo dette\nvolgarmente di Marforio e di Pasquino,' by the same author, Rome,\n1789, which I have not been able to see. Moroni, vi. 99, gives 1791\nas the year in which it was bought by Duke Braschi, the nephew of\nPius VI. while the Pope was in exile in France, and the completion\nby the rebuilding must, therefore, have been some years later.\n\nThe date of its discovery is told in the following inscription by\nthe cardinal inhabiting Torre Orsini at the time, and who saved it\nfrom destruction:--\n\n        Oliverii Caraffa\n        Beneficio hic sum\n        Anno Salvati Mundi--MDI.)\n\nIt was Adrian VI. (not Alexander VI. as Murray has it), who proposed\nto throw it into the Tiber. Adrian VI. was a victim of pasquinades\nfor two reasons,--the first, because born at Utrecht and tutor of\nCharles V., and afterwards viceroy in Spain, during all Charles'\nabsence in Germany Rome feared at his election that he would set up\nthe Papal See in Spain; and it is not altogether impossible that the\npopular satires may have had some influence in deciding him on the\ncontrary to repair immediately to Rome,--the second, because he was\nan energetic and unsparing reformer; and those who were touched by\nhis measures were just those who could afford to pay the hire of the\ntongues of popular wags.\n\nNor was it only during his life that he was the subject of such\ncriticisms. When his rigorous reign was suddenly brought to\na close after he had worn the tiara but twenty months, on the\ndoor of his physician was posted this satire, 'Liberatori Patri\u00e6\nS.P.Q.R.' (Giovio; Vit. Hadr. VI.); and his tomb in St. Peter's,\nbetween that of Pius II. and Pius III., was disgraced with this\nepitaph: 'Hic jacet impius inter Pios,' till some years later, when\nhis body was removed to a worthier monument in S. Maria del Anima.\n\n[295] I have not been able to make out the origin of this name. It\nis possibly, a mere combination of Cecco, short for Francesco, and a\nfamily name, or the name of the village of which he was native which\nI do not recognise.\n\n[296] 'Nei tempi di prima.'\n\n[297] It is very likely C\u00e8cing\u00f9lo was some generations older even than\nthe narrator's 'papa.' I have thought it worth while to put this much\nabout him on record, as he was doubtless one of those who have given\nthe local colouring to these very tales. The old women whose heads\nare their storehouse, as they repeat them over the spinning-wheel,\nsay them with no further alteration than want of memory or want of\napprehension necessarily occasions. It is the professional wag who,\nsitting in the midst of the vegetable market amid a peasant audience,\nwill ascribe to a cicoriaro the acts of a paladin, and insert 'a casino\nin the Campagna' in the place of an oriental palace. I have met various\npeople who had heard as much as the above about C\u00e8cing\u00f9lo, but no more.\n\n[298] 'Lo Sposalizio di Sor Cassandro.' For 'Sor' see p. 194.\n\n[299] The 'Via di Pan\u00ecco' is so called, according to Rufini, because\non a bit of ancient sculpture built into the wall of one of the\nhouses where it had been dug up as is so commonly done in Rome, the\npeople thought they saw the likeness of some ears of millet, pan\u00ecco,\nand birds pecking them.\n\n[300] Just as at Oxford, men say 'the High' and 'the Corn,' &c, it is\nvery common in Rome to use the name of a street omitting the word Via.\n\n[301] 'Friggitoria,' an open shop where all manner of fried dishes very\npopular among the lower classes, and varying according to the time\nof year, are made and sold; three or four or more enormous pans of\noil and of lard are kept boiling, and at one season fish, at another\nrice-balls, at another artichokes, &c. &c, always previously dipped\ninto light batter, are cooked therein to a bright gold colour. On\nSt. Joseph's Day, as it always falls in Lent, a meagre festa-dish\nis made of balls of batter fried in oil, in as universal request as\nour pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. A writer in the 'Giovedi' mentions\ntwo popular traditions on the connexion between the 'frittelle' or\n'frittatelli' and St. Joseph. One is that St. Joseph was wont to make\nsuch a dish for his meal by frying them with the shavings from his\nbench, in the same dangerous way that you may see those of his trade\nheating their glue in any carpenter's shop in Rome. The other, that on\noccasion of the Visitation, the B. Virgin and St. Elizabeth remained\nso long in ecstatic conversation that the dinner was forgotten,\nand St. Joseph took the liberty allowed to so near a relation of\npossessing himself of a frying-pan and preparing a dish of 'frittelle.'\n\nThe writer already quoted narrates in another paper that the\n'friggitori' formerly plied their trade in the open air, but one day\na cat escaping from the attentions of an admirer she did not choose to\nencourage, sprang from a low roof adjoining, right into the frying-pan\nof a 'friggitore' full as it was of boiling oil and spluttering\n'frittelle'; the cat overturned the frying-pan, setting herself on\nfire, and carrying a panic together with a stream of flaming oil into\nthe midst of the crowd in waiting for their 'frittelle.' Since that\nday the 'friggitore' fries under cover, though still in open shops.\n\n[302] Great part of the fun of the story consisted of jokes upon these\ntechnicalities which it would be too tedious to reproduce and explain.\n\n[303] 'Brutto vecchiaccio!' ugly, horrid old man.\n\n[304] 'Bella e ricca quanto il sole.'\n\n[305] 'Mosca' and 'neo' both mean either a mole or a patch.\n\n[306] 'Sicario,' hired assassin.\n\n[307] 'I Matrimonio del Signor Cajusse.' This story, it will be\nseen, is altogether disconnected with the other of the same name at\np. 158-69, and it is curious so similar a title should be appended to\nso dissimilar a story. It has not half the humour of Mr. Campbell's\n'Baillie Lunnain,' No. xvii. b. Vol. i., but is sufficiently like to\npair off against it. It is also observable for representing exactly\nthe proceeding of the 'Marquis di Carabas' in 'Puss in Boots.'\n\n[308] 'Mercante di Campagna,' see n. 2, p. 154.\n\n[309] 'Tenuta,' a farm; a holding.\n\n[310] 'Merenda,' see n. 7, p. 155.\n\n[311] This story, again, is perhaps more curious for the sake of the\nrepetition of the name of Lattanzio, in so different a story as that at\np. 155, than for its contents. There is doubtless a reason why this\nname should come into this sort of use as with that of 'Cajusse,'\nbut I have not as yet been able to meet with it.\n\n[312] '21 o'clock,' three hours before the Ave.\n\n[313] 'Gisbuse' are high boots of unblackened leather reaching up to\nthe thighs, worn by sportsmen about Rome.\n\n[314] 'Viva!' or 'Evviva!' is a not very uncommon, though rather\nold-fashioned, mode of hearty greeting.\n\n[315] 'Curiale,' a lawyer, a pleader.\n\n[316] 'Scimmia,' a monkey. In England we usually speak of a cat as\nof feminine gender, and in Germany the custom is so strong that the\nwell-known riddle pronounces the 'Kater' (tom cat) 'keine Katze' (no\ncat), while in France, Spain and Italy the normal cat is masculine. In\nItalian, on the other hand, the monkey is always spoken of in the\nfeminine gender; it becomes noteworthy in this instance when we\nconsider the termination of the story. 'Bellacuccia,' 'dear little\npretty one.'\n\n[317] I do not know at what period the transfer took place, but\nin the edition of 1725, of Panciroli's book on Rome, the church is\nnamed as built and served by the 'Eremiti scalsi di S. Agostino,'\ncorroborating this part of the story.\n\n[318] 'Fatato.'\n\n[319] 'You know what a \"selvaggio\" is, I suppose?' asked the\nnarrator. 'Yes; a wild man,' I answered, thinking of the German\nmyths. 'No, they weren't altogether men, they were those creatures\nthere used to be in old times, half men with legs like goats, but\nthey walked on two legs, and had heads and arms like men.' After\nthis description, I thought I might take the license of adopting the\ntitle for a word incidentally used by the narrator in telling the\nstory. The shepherds and goatherds about Rome with their goatskin\nleggings covering leg and thigh, readily suggest to the eye how the\nidea of a satyr may have first arisen.\n\n[320] 'Appassionata,' 'of a broken heart.'\n\n[321] 'Ferraiuola,' the light cloak with a shoulderpiece which priests\nwear out of doors in Rome in summer. It was formerly worn by others\nbesides priests.\n\n[322] Sgramfia, or granfa or gramfia, is a claw of a beast, or of\na bird of prey, most often used for the latter. I hardly know how\nthis came to be ascribed to a satyr, unless she meant simply that\nhis nails were rather strongly developed.\n\n[323] Bazzarini gives 'salvatico' as synonymous with 'satiro.'\n\n[324] 'Mi volete bene,' literally, only 'do you wish me well?' but the\naccepted form of saying, 'do you love me?' when therefore the girl says\nthe words at last she is supposed to make a sort of compromise by means\nof which she saves the prince and her own good taste at the same time.\n\n[325] Though I believe there is no rule or ground for the distinction,\nin conversational language, 'fratello' is used for 'brother,'\nand 'frate' for 'monk' (as 'sorella' usually means any sister and\n'suora' a nun). 'Frate,' again, is usually, though not by any rule,\nor exclusively, reserved for the mendicant Franciscans. A Capuchin\nis called 'padre cappucino,' and a Dominican, generally, a 'padre\ndomenicano.'\n\n[326] 'Laico.'\n\n[327] 'Guercino.' There is no very definitely expressed distinction in\nItalian in the way of saying weak-sighted, or one-eyed, or squinting;\n'guercio' is used to express all. The termination 'ino' here is not\nan actual diminutive, but means 'he who is one-eyed,' or 'he who is\nweak-sighted,' or 'he who squints,' with an implied expression of\nsympathy (see Note 5, p. 379). In this case the conclusion shows that\n'one-eyed' was intended.\n\n[328] 'Posate,' plural of 'posata,' knife, fork, and spoon.\n\n[329] 'Ecco servito, Excellenza.' 'It is all done as you desire.'\n\n[330] The poor, badly fed themselves, delight to dilate on a\ndescription of good living, just as dreaming of eating is said to arise\nfrom a condition of hunger. I have not added a word here in the text to\nthose of the narrator of the story, and her enumeration is a very fair\nrendering of the usual repertory of a Roman innkeeper. Broth or thin\nsoup ('minestra'); a dish of boiled meat ('lesso'), of 'arrosto,' that\nis, grilled or baked, and of 'fritto' (fried) is the regular course:\n'gallinaccio spezzato' is a turkey cut up in joints and served with\nvarious sauces, and is much more esteemed than if cooked whole,\na rather unusual dish; 'frittata,' omelette; 'crescione,' watercresses.\n\n[331] 'Beato a te, Francesco.'\n\n[332] 'Born,' an Italianism for 'laid.'\n\n[333] 'Fritto dorato.' Romans, though not eminent in the culinary art,\nfry admirably. They always succeed in making their fried dishes a\nrich golden colour, and they ordinarily express a fried dish by the\ntwo words together, 'fritto dorato.'\n\n[334]     'Beato a te, Francesco,\n        Che quando morirai\n        Un occhio serrerai\n          E l'altro no!'\n\n[335] The merit of this story consists much in the mode of telling. The\nnarrator should be able to imitate the peculiar tone to which the\n'Preface' is sung, and to supply the corresponding notes for the\nadditional insertion. It was very effectively done by the person who\ntold it to me.\n\n[336] 'Asino o porco.'\n\n[337] 'Padre Guardiano' is the ordinary title of the Superior in\nFranciscan convents.\n\n[338] 'Zicherte! Zacherte!'\n\n[339] 'I sette Villani.'\n\n[340] 'Un po' di mistuanza.' 'Mistuanza' is a word in use among the\npoor for a mixture of herbs of which they make a kind of poor salad.\n\n[341] 'Un po' di bove, un po' di porchi, un po' di galline.'\n\n'Un po' (un poco) a little. The effect of the story depended a good\ndeal on the tones of voice in which it was told. The deprecatory tone\nof the penitent as he says, 'un po' di bove,' &c., and the horror of\nthe priest as he cries out, 'Signori della mistuanza!'\n\nThis same story in quite another dress was told me one evening in\nAldershot Camp; and as it is a very curious instance of the migration\nof myths, I give the home version.\n\nIt would seem that in Aldershot lingo, or in the lingo of a\ncertain regiment once stationed there, to 'kill a fox' means to get\ndrunk. Possibly the expression was acquired during the Peninsular war,\nas 'tomar una zorrilla' has an equivalent meaning in Spanish. The\nstory was this. Once during the brief holiday of the chaplain of\nthe regiment, a French priest who knew a little English took his\nplace. At confession the chief fault of which, according to the\nstory, the men accused themselves was that they had 'killed a fox,'\nan expression perfectly well understood by their own pastor. The\ngood French priest, however, instead of being shocked at finding how\noften men got drunk, was highly edified at the angelic simplicity of\nthese Angles, who showed so much contrition for having indulged in the\ninnocent pastime--in France, not even an offence among sportsmen--of\nhaving killed a fox.\n\nAt last there came one of a more humorous turn of mind than the rest,\nand the surnois air with which he pronounced the expression revealed to\nthe good Frenchman that the words meant something more than they said.\n\n'Vat mean you ven you say, \"kill de fox?\"' now inquired the Frenchman\nof his penitent with fear and trembling. And the blunt soldier had\nno sooner expounded the slang than the bewildered foreigner threw\nopen the front wicket of the confessional and cried aloud:\n\n'Come back! all you dat have killed de foxes! Come back! come back!'\n\n[342] 'L'uccelletto,' the little bird.\n\n[343] 'Terrino,' a high earthen dish with a cover, probably the origin\nof our 'tureen,' almost the only kind of Italian dish that ever has\na cover.\n\n[344] 'Il Diavolo che prese Moglie.'\n\n[345] 'Il Capo diavolo.'\n\n[346] 'Il pi\u00f9 bravo.'\n\n[347] Witches were generally accused of communicating with the Devil,\ngoing to midnight meetings with him, &c., by means of ointments. See\n'Del Rio,' lib. ii. Q. xvi. p. 81, col. 1, C., and lib. iii. P. 1,\n2, ii. p. 155, col. 1, B., &c., &c.\n\n[348] 'La Regina e la Triparola;' 'Triparola,' female tripe-seller.\n\n[349] 'Vicolo,' a narrow dirty street.\n\n[350] 'Due gocciette d'acqua,' two little drops of water, the Roman\nequivalent for 'as like as two peas.'\n\n[351] 'Triparolo,' a male tripe-seller.\n\n[352] 'Un bajocco di tripa-gatto,' the worst part of the tripe,\nsold for cats' and dogs' meat.\n\n[353] 'La Regina Cattiva.'\n\n[354] 'La Sposa Cece,' the simple wife. 'Cece' among the common\npeople seems to mean pretty nearly the same as 'tonto,' 'silly,'\n'idiotic;' in this place more exactly 'simple' or 'half-witted.'\n\n[355] It is a characteristic of the Roman people that as a rule\nthey never call people by their names; the 'casato' or married name,\nand the 'cognome' or family name, are used indifferently when such\na name is called in request at all, by married people. If they must\ngive a name to a stranger it is always the Christian name that comes\nfirst to their lips; among themselves, however, it is seldom the\ngenuine name that is used. They have some 'sopranome' or nick-name\nfor everybody, or at least a shortening of the Christian name,\nas 'Checca' and 'Checco' for Francesca and Francesco; 'Pippo' for\nFilippo; 'Pepe' for Giuseppe; 'Cola' for Niccola; 'Maso' for Tomaso;\n'Teta' for Teresa; 'Lalla' for Adelaide; 'Lina' for Carolina; 'Tuta'\nfor Geltrude; the abbreviations for Giovanni are innumerable.\n\nBut what they most love to designate people by is a description\nof their persons. When you come home from your walk, your servant\ndoes not tell you Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so have called, but it will\nbe 'Quel signore vecchio ingobbato' (that old hump-backed kind of\ngentleman), if he be the least grey and high-shouldered, however\nyoung he may be; or 'Quel bel giovane alto' (that tall, handsome,\nyoung gentleman), whatever his age, if he be only bien conserv\u00e9. Then\n'Quella signora alta, secca, che veste di lutto' (that tall thin\nlady dressed in mourning). 'Quella signora bella bionda, giovane'\n(that lady, pretty, fair, young). Or 'Quello che porta il brillante'\n(he who wears a brilliant), because the same friend happened to have\na diamond stud in his cravat one day; or 'Quella contessa che veste\ndi cilestro,' because the lady happened once to wear a blue dress,\nand so on, with all manner of signs and tokens which it may take you\nhalf-an-hour to recognise a person by, if you ever make it out at\nall. Or, if there is no distinctive mark of the kind to seize upon,\nit will be 'Quel signore,' or 'quella signora di Palazzo,' or 'Via,'\nor 'Piazza' So-and-so. And this not from the difficulty of catching\na foreign name, because it is still more in vogue when designating\ntheir own people; if you are asking for the address of a servant,\na tailor, a dressmaker, &c., it is in vain you try to make them out\nby the name, you must do your best to describe them, and then they\nwill break out with an exclamation hitting it off for themselves:\n'Ah! si, quel scimunito' (that silly-looking fellow); 'quel gobbo'\n(that high-shouldered fellow--lit. 'hunchbacked'); 'quella strega'\n(that ugly old woman, cunning woman--lit. 'witch'); 'quella bella\ngiovane alta' (that tall handsome girl); 'quella donna bassetta'\n(that short little woman), for with their descriptions as with their\nnames they must super-add a diminutive or a qualification, and 'basso'\n(short) is pretty sure to be rendered by 'bassetto,' 'piccola'\n(little) by 'piccinina,' 'vecchio' (old) by 'vecchietto.' 'Quella\nscimia' or 'scimietta' (that old woman, or that little old woman\nwho looks like a monkey). 'Quella donna anziana' (that respectable\nold woman). 'Quella donniciuola' (that nasty little old woman,\ncontemptible old woman). 'Quel ragazzino, tanto carino, tanto caruccio'\n(that nice boy, that very nice boy). 'Quel vecchietto' (that nice\nold man); and in this way the hero of this story is designated as\n'The man who has a daughter to marry.'\n\n[356] 'Boccione,' a large coarse glass bottle commonly used in Rome\nfor carrying wine. When it is covered with twisted rushes--like the\noil-flasks that come to England--it is called a 'damigiana,' a young\nlady, a little lady.\n\n[357] 'Mettetevelo addietro.' Lit. 'Put it behind you,' a way of saying\n'Never mind it,' 'don't care about it.' But the woman is supposed to\nbe so foolish that she understands it literally.\n\n[358] The Italian custom of the newly married couples continuing to\nlive with the parents of one or other of them is here brought in.\n\n[359] 'Tegame,' a flat earthen pan much in vogue in Roman kitchens;\n'ova in tegame' is a favourite and not a bad dish. A little fresh\nbutter is oiled, and the eggs are dropped into it as for poaching,\nand very slowly cooked in it; when scarcely set they are reckoned done.\n\n[360] Such notions are not altogether so impossible as they seem. I\nmyself heard a very intelligent little boy one day say to his mother,\n'Mama, I should so like to see a horse's egg.' 'A horse's egg, my\ndear--there are no such things,' was the reply of course. 'Oh yes,\nthere must be,' rejoined the child, 'because I've heard Pa several\ntimes talk about finding a mare's nest.'\n\n[361] 'Uovo,' by the way, is a word with which great liberties are\ntaken. The correct singular is 'uovo' and the plural 'uova,' but\nit is very common to make the plural in 'i' and also to say 'uova'\nfor the singular, and 'uove' for plural, while the initial 'u' is\nmost usually dropped out.\n\n[362] 'Brodo' is beef-tea or clear broth with nothing in it; broth\nwith vermicelli or anything else in it is 'minestra;' 'zuppa,' which\nsounds most like 'soup,' is rather 'sop,' and when applied to broth,\nmeans strictly only broth with bread in it, from 'inzuppare,' to steep,\nsoak, or sop; but it is also used for broth with anything else in it\nbesides bread, but never without anything in it.\n\n[363] 'La Donna Mattarella.' 'Matto' is simply 'mad,' with the\ndiminutive\n'ella' it comes to mean 'slightly mad,' 'simple.'\n\n[364] 'Il Tonto.'\n\n[365] 'Chiodacci;' 'chiodi,' nails; 'chiodacci,' old rusty nails.\n\n[366] 'La Ragazza Golosa;' 'goloso' means, in particular, greedy of\nnice things.\n\n[367] 'Codiche di presci\u00fato.'\n\n[368] 'Mercante di Campagna.' See Note 2, p. 154.\n\n[369] 'Voi pensate a voi ed io penso a me!' 'Pensare' is much used\nin Rome in the sense of 'to attend to,' 'to provide for.'\n\n[370] 'Gu\u00e8rcia,' see Note 3 to 'The Two Friars;' in this case squinting\nseems intended.\n\n[371] 'La Figlia Ghiotta.' 'Ghiotta' and 'golosa' have much the\nsame meaning.\n\n[372] 'Compare-lupo' (lit. had a wolf for godfather); 'compare' for\n'compadre,' godfather, gossip. Lycanthropy had an important place in\nthe medi\u00e6val as in the earlier mythologies; witches were often accused\nof turning people into wolves by the use of their ointments. Our\n'Little Red Riding Hood' is connected with it, and several in the\nGerman and Tirolese Stories, but it is too wide a subject to enter\nupon here.\n\n[373] 'Il Vecchio Avaro.' (The Avaricious Old Man.)\n\n[374] 'Che campasse d'aria,' who should subsist on air.\n\n[375] 'Abbi pazienza,' have patience; equivalent to 'please,' 'pray\nexcuse me,' &c.\n\n[376] 'Trattoria,' an eating-house, but one where, as a rule, dinners\nare sent out.\n\n[377] 'Giovedi grasso,' Thursday in Carneval week, a day of a little\nextra feasting.\n\n[378] 'La Vecchia Avara.' This story was told in emulation of the last,\notherwise it is hardly worth reproducing. The only merit of the story\nconsisted in the liveliness of the pantomime with which the words of\nthe third wife were rendered. To the poor, however, such a story is\na treasure, as it tells of the condign punishment of an oppressor;\nand there are few of them who have not some experience of what it is\nto be trampled on.\n\n[379] According to the local custom prevailing among all classes,\nof married sons and daughters continuing to live in the same house\nwith their parents.\n\n[380] 'Dispensa,' store-room.\n\n[381] 'Pizza,' a cake; 'ricotta,' curds of sheep's milk.\n\n[382] 'Il Poverello del Cece.' The termination of the word 'Poverello'\nis one of those which determine the sentiment of the speaker in a way\nit is impossible to put into English. We use 'poor' (e.g. joined to the\nname of a deceased friend) to express sympathy and endearment; if we\nput 'poor' in this sense before the expression 'povero,' 'a poor man,'\n'poverello,' 'a poor poor man,' we have the nearest rendering. Dante\ncalls St. Francis, apostle of voluntary poverty, 'Quel poverel' di\nDio.' It is the common expression in Rome for a beggar. The 'Poverello'\nin this story, however, was not one that merited much compassion.\n\n[383] 'Cece,' vetch, produces a very large pea in the south of\nEurope, and provides a staple article of food much liked among the\nlower orders. In Italy it is mostly eaten plain boiled, often cold,\nor else in soup and stews. All day long men go about the streets in\nRome selling them (plain boiled) in wooden pails. Boys buy a handful\nas they would cherries, and eat them as they go along. In Spain,\nwhere it bears the name of 'garbanzo,' the favourite mode of cooking\nit is stewed in oil, with a large quantity of red pepper.\n\n[384] 'Coratella,' nice little heart.\n\n[385]   'O la vitella,\n        O la zitella.'\n\n'Vitella,' a calf; 'zitella,' an unmarried person.\n\n[386] 'Berretta,' (also written 'biretta') is used for any kind of cap\nworn by men or boys. It would appear that no kind of head-covering\nexcept a hood to the cloak, enabling the wearer to cover the head,\nor leave it bare at pleasure, was in common use in Italy before the\nsixteenth century, though the 'berretta' is mentioned in documents\nas part of ecclesiastical, particularly of the pontifical, dress,\nas early as the tenth century. The round 'berretta' coming to be\ncommonly used by the people, their superiors adopted the quadrated\nform, which, with some modifications, is that still adopted by the\nCatholic clergy. Graduates and doctors were privileged to wear it,\nhence its use by Doctor Grillo; and though monks generally are not,\nsome of those engaged in preaching and teaching have a special\npermission to do so. The Superior of the Theatine Convent of Naples\nalone, among all superiors of nuns, has the privilege of wearing the\n'berretta.' Orsola Benincasa, the founder, was called to Rome that\nthe Pope (Gregory XIII., 1576) might examine whether the reputation\nshe had acquired for learning and piety was well founded. Not only\nwas the Pope well satisfied with her, but St. Philip Neri also gave\nher many tokens of approval, and, among others, in his playful way,\nput his 'berretta' on her head. This honour has been commemorated by\nher successors retaining its use.\n\n[387] 'Vale pi\u00f9 un oncia di fortuna che una libbra di sapere.'\n\n[388] 'Un saccentuzze.'\n\n[389] 'Garbatezza.'\n\n[390] 'Sassata,' in Italian, has a more terrible significance than\n'stone-throwing,' in English, conveys. The art of throwing and slinging\nstones with dexterity and accuracy of aim would seem to have been as\nfavourite a pastime among the peasantry in Italy and Spain as archery\namong our own. For the purposes of the present volume, it needs only\nto allude to the Roman development of the practice. P. Bresciani,\nwho has taken more pains than any writer of the present age in\nillustrating the local customs of Rome, tells us the 'sassate'\ncontinued a favourite diversion of the youth of Rome almost down\nto our own day, and it was only by the most strenuous and vigorous\nmeasures that Cardinal Consalvi was enabled to put an end to it; being\nimpelled thereto by the barbarous tone of feeling it engendered, and\nthe frequent casualties resulting from it. The most idle and dissolute\nraggamuffins of the Monti and Trastevere quarters were among the most\ndexterous of marksmen. Whenever they aimed a throw, 'fosse di fionda\no fosse di soprammano' (whether from a sling or from the hand) they\nwere sure to hit the mark; so that any one of them might have written,\nlike the Greek archer on his arrow, 'for the right eye of Philip,' on\nhis 'ciotto.' ('Ciotto' is a stone such as would be used for throwing\nfrom a sling, and thus 'ciottolo' means equally a road made with rough\nstones and a 'sassata.' What is more to our present purpose is, that\n'ciotto' means also 'lame,' suggesting how often persons may have\nbeen lamed by 'sassate'). It is said that in the Balearic islands,\nit was the custom for mothers to tie the meals of their children to\na branch of a tree, and none got anything to eat till he had hit the\nstring with a stone, and thus they were trained to 'fiondeggiare'\n(to throw from a sling) perfectly. The Roman raggamuffins, instead of\ntheir food, used to have for their mark the features of donna Lucrezia\nand Marforio, and they 'ciottolavanle' (pelted them) with stones from\nfar and near. At other times their aim would be directed against a\ntuft of herbage dangling down from the arches of the aqueducts of\nNero or Claudius, nor would they rest from their aiming till they had\nrooted it out with their stones. Their highest ambition was to direct\na stone right through one of the small window-openings in the loftiest\nrange at the Coliseum. After such practice, we may well believe the\nstones fell true when they had a living adversary before them.\n\n'And as it is the evil custom of the sons of Adam to strive one against\nthe other, and for the excitement of contention every village loves\nto keep up warfare with its next neighbouring village, so the \"Rioni\"\nof Rome delighted in trials of skill one against the other. Thus\non every holiday a hundred or two of Montegiani and Trasteverini\nwere to be found arrayed against each other, and all arranged in due\norder of battle, with its skirmishers and reconnoitring parties, its\nvan-guard and rear-guard. One side would take the Aventine for its\nbase of operations, and another the Palatine....' After describing\nvery graphically the tactics in vogue, our author goes on to say,\n'The adults of both factions stood by the while and backed up the boys,\nand often the strife which had begun as boys' pastime ended in serious\nmaiming of grown up men. Hence, not a holiday passed but some mother\nhad to mourn over a son brought home to her with a broken head or an\neye knocked out; or some wife over a husband riddled (sforacchiato)\nwith wounds....' Hence it was that Cardinal Consalvi, as we have seen,\nput an end to such rough play.\n\n[391] 'Quella,' in the original, lends itself better to the purposed\nmisunderstanding of the story, meaning 'that one,' 'such an one as\nthat!' in the feminine gender; and the master would think the servant\nsaid it in contempt because he spoke of a miller's daughter.\n\n[392] 'La Buona Grazia del Gobbo.'\n\n[393] 'In mezzo alla strada.'\n\n[394] 'Good Grace,' also the 'good favour,' the 'good graces.'\n\n[395] 'Cortile,' inner court of palaces and houses that are built in\na quadrangle.\n\n[396] 'Saccoccia di polenta.' 'Polenta' is a porridge made of Indian\ncorn meal, which makes a staple article of food of the Italian\npeasantry. It is, however, used for the meal of which the porridge is\ngoing to be made, though that is more usually called 'formentone,'\nor 'grano turco.' 'Saccroccia di polenta' would be a large pouch in\nwhich poor country labourers carry a provision of meal, when going\nout to work in the Campagna. The girl takes Giuditta's bag in the\npicture for such a 'saccoccia' as she had been used to see.\n\n[397] 'Tramezzo.'\n\n[398] 'Pupazza,' a doll, a stuffed figure.\n\n[399] 'Mi date la vostra buona grazia,' a common expression of\nno particular meaning; a compliment, equivalent to, 'We part good\nfriends,' 'Give me your good favour.'\n\n[400] In a wine country the idea of wine being almost a necessity of\nexistence occurs more readily than in England, where, however general\nits use, it is still a luxury.\n\n[401] 'Era stufa,' a way of saying, she was 'worn out,' 'wearied out.'\n\n[402] 'Palazzo.'\n\n[403] 'Credenziere,' confidential servant.\n\n[404] 'Aia,' upper nurse, nursery governess.\n\n[405] 'Combinazione.'\n\n[406] 'E cos\u00ec fece' (and thus he did) is another of the expressions\nin universal use in Rome in tale-telling, forming a sort of refrain.\n\n[407] 'I sposi Felici.'\n\n[408] 'Esempio,' see preface. 'Esempiuccio,' a termination of\nendearment, meaning in this place 'a nice \"esempio\".'\n\n[409] 'Vecchiaccia,' bad old woman.\n\n[410] 'Forma di formaggio,' a whole cheese. 'Cacio,' the proper word\nfor cheese, is almost entirely superseded by 'formaggio,' which comes\nfrom 'forma,' the press or mould in which it is made.\n\n[411] 'Una Camera di Locanda.'\n\n[412] 'Combinazione.'\n\n[413] 'Credenziere.'\n\n[414] 'Un ora di notte'; an hour after the evening 'Ave.'\n\n[415] 'Il Gatto della Contessa.'\n\n[416] 'Il gatto non dissi niente, ma guardava con certi occhi grossi,\ngrossi, fissi.'\n\n[417] 'Strozzato,' throttled; killed by wounding the strozzo, throat.\n\n[418] 'E questo \u00e8 un fatto vero, sa; perch\u00e8 il gatto \u00e8 traditore\nsempre. Il cane e fedele si, ma il gatto \u00e8 traditore.'\n\n[419] 'Perch\u00e8 litigano sempre i Cani ed i Gatti.'\n\n[420] 'D\u00e0lli! D\u00e0lli ai cani!'\n\n[421] 'Contes Populaires des anciens Bretons, pr\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9s d'un Essai sur\nl'origine des Epop\u00e9es chevaleresques de la Table Ronde.' Par Th. de\nla Villemarqu\u00e9. Paris et Leipzig, 1842.","title":"Roman Legends: A collection of the fables and folk-lore of Rome","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":151118}