Part 2

And here I would remark, as allied to this subject, that folklore is as yet far from being understood in all its fulness. In France, for example, no scholar seems to have got beyond the idea that it consists entirely of _traditions populaires_, necessarily ancient. In England we have advanced further, but we are still far from realizing that with every day there springs up and grows among the masses that which in days to come will be deeply interesting, as expressing the spirit of the age. This accretive folklore is just as valuable as any—or will be so—and it should be gathered and studied, no matter what its origin may be. So of this book of mine, I express the conviction that it contains many tales which have, since the days of Dante, and many perhaps very recently, been attached to the name of Virgil, yet do not consider them less interesting than those collected in the twelfth century by Gervais of Tilbury, Neckham, and others. In fact, these here given actually contain far more ancient and curious traditional matter, because they have not been abridged or filed down by literary mediæval Latinists into mere plots or anecdotes as contracted as the “variants” of a modern folklorist. The older writers, and many of the modern, regarded as ugly excrescence all that did not belong, firstly, to scholarship or “style”; secondly, to the fact or subject in hand. Thus, Lorenzo Selva gives a witch story with six incantations, which are far more interesting than all the washy poetry in his book, but is so ashamed of having done so, that he states in a marginal note that he has only preserved them to give an idea of “the silliness of all such iniquitous trash”—the “iniquitous trash” in question being evidently of Etrusco-Roman origin, to judge from form and similarity to other ancient spells. In these later Virgilian tales there has been no scruple, either as regards literary elegance or piety, to prevent the chronicler from giving them just as they were told, the “sinful and silly” incantations, when they occurred, being faithfully retained, with all that can give an idea of the true spirit of the whole. The mean fear of appearing to be vulgar, or credulous, or not literally “genteel,” has caused thousands of such writers to suppress traditions worth far more than all they ever penned.

I write this in the belief that all my critics will admit that in these, as in my “Florentine Legends” and “Etrusco-Roman Remains,” I have really recovered and recorded a great deal of valuable ancient tradition. Also that what was preserved to us of ancient Etruscan or Græco-Latin lore regarding the minor gods and sylvan deities, goblins, etc., by classic writers is very trifling indeed compared to the _immense_ quantity which existed, and that a great deal of it may still be found among the peasantry, especially among wizards and witches, is unquestionable. That I have secured some of this in my books is, I trust, true; future critics will winnow it all out, and separate the wheat from the chaff.

I have entitled this work “The Unpublished Legends of Virgil,” which may be called a contradiction in terms, since it is now given in type. But it is the only succinct title of which I can think which expresses its real nature, and separates it from the earlier collections of such tales, the latest of which was issued by Mr. D. Nutt.

And, finally, I would remark with some hesitation in advancing so strange an idea, that in all the legends which I have gathered, I find persistence in a very rude and earlier faith, which the Græco-Roman religion and Christianity itself, instead of destroying, seem to have simply strengthened. Indeed, there are remote villages in Italy in which Catholicism in sober truth has come down to sorcery, or gradually conformed to it, not only in form, but in spirit; from which I conclude that, till science _pur et simple_ shall be all-prevalent, the oldest and lowest cults will exist among those whose minds are adapted to them. And as Edward Clodd, the President of the Folklore Society, has clearly shown, {0d} there are thousands, even among the highly-educated in Europe, who really belong to these old believers.

There will come a day, and that not very far off, when the last traces of these strange semi-spiritual-romantic or classic traditions will have vanished from the _people_, and then what has been recorded will be sought for and studied with keenest interest, and conclusions drawn from it of which we have no conception. To some of us they are even now only as

“Departing sunbeams, loth to stop, Still smiling on the mountain-top.”

To the vast majority even of the somewhat educated world, collecting such lore is like sending frigates to watch eclipses and North Pole explorations, and the digging up old skulls in Neanderthals—that is, a mere fond waste of money and study to no really useful purpose. There is a law of evolution which is so strictly and persistently carried out, that it would seem as if the mocking devil, who, according to the Buddhists, is the real head of the Universe, had it in his mind to jeer mankind thereby—and it is that the work of man in the past shall perish rapidly, and those who seek _vestigia rerum_ shall have as little material as possible, even as dreams flit. So the strife goes ever on, chiefly aided by the ignorant, who “take no interest” in the past; and so it will be for some time to come. I have often observed that in Italy, as in all countries, children and peasants take pleasure in destroying old vases and the like, even when they could sell them at a profit; and there is something of the same spirit among all people regarding things which they do not understand. Blessed are they who do something in their generation to teach to the many the true value of all which conduces to culture or science! Blessed be they who save up anything for the future, “and they shall be blest” by wiser men to come! The primeval savages who heaped up vast _koken middens_, or thousands of tons of oyster-shells and bones, did not know that they were writing history; but they did it. Perhaps the wisest of us will be as savages to those who are to come, as they in turn will be to later men.

THE STORY OF ROMOLO AND REMOLO.

“In quei buon tempi, ne i primi principii del Mondo, dicon li Poeti che gli uomini e le Bestie facevano tutti una medesima vita. . . . E che sia il vero ch’ eglino s’ impastassino del feroce, como loro, e s’ incorporassino, leggete di Romolo e Remulo i quali si pascevon di latte di lupa. Ecco già che divennero in opera lupi ingordissimi, e voraci.”—_La Zucca del Doni Fiorentino_, 1607.

There was of old a King who had a beautiful wife, and also two children, twins, who were exactly alike. This King was named Romo and his wife Roma, and the children were called Romolo and Remolo.

Now, it came to pass that the Queen and her twins, both as yet sucklings (_ancora poppanti_), were besieged in a castle when the King was far away. The enemy had sworn to kill the whole royal family and to extirpate the kingly race.

Now, when the Queen was in sore distress, seeing death close upon her, there came to her a wizard, who said:

“There is only one way by which you can save your life and that of your babes. I can change you all three into _lupi manari_, or were-wolves, and thus in the form of wolves you may escape.”

Then the Queen had the power to become a she-wolf or a human being at her will, and it was the same with the children. So they fled away, and lived in the woods for seven years; and the boys grew up like young giants, as strong as six common children. And the Queen became more beautiful than ever, for she lived under a spell.

One day the King was hunting in the forest, when he found himself alone, and surrounded by such a flock of raging wolves that his life was in great danger, when all at once there came a very beautiful woman, who seemed to have great power over the beasts, as if she were their queen, for they obeyed her and retreated. Then the King recognised in her his lost wife. So they returned with the twins to their castle, but the King did not know that his wife and children were themselves were-wolves.

One day the same enemy who had sought to kill the Queen seven years before, of which the King knew nothing, came to the castle pretending to be a friend, and was kindly treated. But when the Queen and her two sons beheld him, they flew at him as if they were mad, and tore him to pieces before all the Court, and began to devour him like raging wolves. Yet still the King did not know the whole truth.

Then a brother of the King who was thus slain gathered an army and besieged Romo, who found himself in great danger. One evening he said:

“There is danger within the walls, The sound of enemies without, The sun set in blood, To-morrow it may rise to death. Would that I had more warriors to fight! Two hundred fierce and bold; Two hundred would save us all, Three hundred would give us full victory.”

The Queen said nothing, but that night she stole secretly out of the castle with her sons, and when alone they began to howl, and soon all the were-wolves in the country assembled. So the Queen returned with three hundred men, so fierce and wild that they looked like devils.

They were strange in every way, and talked or howled among themselves in a horrible language, which, however, the Queen and her sons seemed to understand. And in the first battle Romo gained a great victory. And it was observed that the three hundred men ate the dead. However, the King was well pleased to conquer.

When Romolo and Remolo were grown up to be men they learned that in a land not far away were two Princesses named Sabina and Sabinella, who were the two most beautiful, and also the strongest, maidens in the world. And it was also made known that he who would win either must come and conquer her in fight and carry her away by main strength.

So Romolo and Remolo went to their city, and on an appointed day the two Princesses appeared in the public place, ready for the combat. But Romolo advanced with his brother riding on his shoulders, pick-back, _sulle spalle_, as boys do, and, catching up Sabina with one hand and Sabinella with the other, he ran away like the wind—so rapidly that he soon distanced all pursuers. And when Romolo was tired, Remolo took his place, carrying the sisters and bearing his brother. And Romolo made a song on it:

“Up and down the mountain, Over the fields and through the rivulets, Over gray rocks and green grass, I saw a strange beast run; It had three bodies and three heads, Six arms and six legs, Yet did it never run on more than two. Read the riddle rightly, if you can.”

The two brothers wished to build a new and great city of their own. They went to a certain goddess, who told them:

“The city which ye hope to build will be The greatest ever seen in Italy; Above all others it will tower sublime, And rule the world in a far future time; But know that at the first, ere it can rise, It calls for blood and human sacrifice. I know not where the choice or fate doth lie, But of ye two the one must surely die.”

Now, men were greatly wanting for this city, because in those days there were but few in the land. Then the brothers assembled many wolves, bears, foxes, and all wild beasts, and by their power changed them into men. And they did it thus: A sorcerer took an ox and enchanted it, and slew it, and sang over it a magic song, and left it in an enchanted place. Then the wolves and other wild beasts came by night to the great stone of the sacrifice, by a running stream. A god beheld it. They ate the meat—they became men. These were the first Romans.

Last of all came a serpent with a gold crown—the Queen of the Serpents. She ate of the meat and became the most beautiful woman in the world. She was a great magician. Thus she became the goddess of the city, and dwelt in the tower of the temple. And her name was Venus. She was like a star.

Then Romolo and Remolo wished to know which of them was to die to save the city. And both desired it. Then they resolved to take an immense stone and cast it one at the other. So Remolo picked it up and cast it at his brother, and all who beheld it thought he must be slain. But Romolo caught it in his hands and threw it back; yet Remolo caught it easily. But in that instant his foot slipped, and he fell backward over the Tarpeian Rock, and so he perished. This is an old story.

And thus it was that Rome was built.

[Now, it was in this city, or near by, that in after-time Virgil was born, who in his day did such wonders. But the first wonder of all was the manner of his birth. For Virgil was the glory of Rome, and the greatest poet and sorcerer ever known therein.]

* * * * *

It did not occur to me to include this tale among the Virgilian legends, but finding that the compiler of “Virgilius the Sorcerer” (1893) has begun with a legend of Romulus and Remus, I have done the same, having one by me. As the giant said to the storytelling ram, “There is nothing like beginning at the commencement.”

HOW VIRGIL WAS BORN.

“And truly this _aurum potabile_, or drinkable gold, is a marvellous thing, for it worketh wonders to sustain human life, removing all disorders, and ’tis said that it will revive the dead.”—PHIL. ULSTADT: _Cælum Philosophorum_, _seu Liber de Secretis_.

“And there be magic mirrors in which we may see the forms of our enemies, and the like, battalions for battle, and sieges, and all such things.”—PETER GOLDSCHMID: _The Witch and Wizard’s Advocate overthrown_ (1705).

There was once in an old temple in Rome a great man, a very learned Signore. His name was Virgilio, or Virgil. He was a magician, but very good in all things to all men; he had a kind heart, and was ever a friend to the poor.

Virgil was as brave and fearless as he was good. And he was a famous poet—his songs were sung all over Italy. Some say that he was the son of a fairy (_fata_), and that his father was a King of the magicians; others declared that his mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world, and that her name was _Elena_ (Helen), and his father was a spirit. And how it came about was thus:

When all the great lords and princes were in love with the beautiful Elena, she replied that she would marry no one, having a great dread of bearing children. She would not become a mother. And to avoid further wooing and pursuing she shut herself up in a tower, and believed herself to be in safety, because it was far without the walls of Rome. And the door to it was walled up, so that no one could enter it. But the god Jove (_Giove_) entered; he did so by changing himself into many small pieces of gilded paper (gold-leaf), which came down into the tower like a shower.

The beautiful Helen held in her hand a cup of wine, and many of the bits of gold-leaf fell into it.

“How pretty it looks!” said Helen. “It would be a pity to throw it away. The gold does not change the wine. If I drink the gold I shall enjoy good health and ever preserve my beauty.”

But hardly had Helen drunk the wine, before she felt a strange thrill in all her body, a marvellous rapture, a change of her whole being, followed by complete exhaustion. And in time she found herself with child, and cursed the moment when she drank the wine. And to her in this way was born Virgil, who had in his forehead a most beautiful star of gold. Three fairies aided at his birth; the Queen of the Fairies cradled him in a cradle made of roses. She made a fire of twigs of laurel; it crackled loudly. To the crackling of twigs of laurel he was born. His mother felt no pain. The three each gave him a blessing; the wind as it blew into the window wished him good fortune; the light of the stars, and the lamp and the fire, who are all spirits, gave him glory and song. He was born fair and strong and beautiful; all who saw him wondered.

Then it happened, when Virgil was fourteen years old, that one day in summer he went to an old solitary temple, all ruined and deserted, and therein he laid down to sleep. But ere he had closed his eyes he heard a sound as of a voice lamenting, and it said:

“Alas! I am a prisoner! Will no one set me free? If any man can do it, Full happy shall he be.”

Then Virgil said:

“Tell me who thou art and where thou art.”

And the voice answered:

“I am a spirit, Imprisoned in a vase Under the stone Which is beneath thy head.”

Then Virgil lifted the stone and found a vase, which was closed; and he opened it, and there came forth a beautiful spirit, who told him that there was also in the vase a book of magic and necromancy (_magia e gramanzia_).

“Therein wilt thou find all secrets Which thou desirest to obtain, To make what thou wilt into gold, To make the dead speak, To make them come before thee, To go invisibly where thou wilt, To become a great poet. Thou wilt learn the lost secret How to become great and beautiful; Thou wilt rediscover the mystery Of predicting what is to take place; Yea, to win fortune in every game.”

By the vase was a magic wand, the most powerful ever known. And from that day Virgil, who had been as small as a dwarf, became a tall, stately, very handsome man.

This was his first great work: he made a mirror wherein one could see all that was going on in any country in the world, in any city, as well into any house as anywhere. Keeping the mirror hidden (beneath his cloak), he went to the Emperor. And because he was a very handsome man, well dressed, and also by the aid of the mirror, he was permitted to go into the hall where the Emperor sat. And, conversing with him, the Emperor was so pleased that he spoke more familiarly and confidentially than he was wont to do with his best friends; at which the courtiers who were present were angry with jealousy.

Turning to Virgil, the Emperor said:

“I would give a thousand gold crowns to know just what the Turks are doing now, and if they mean to make war on me.”

Virgil replied:

“If your Highness will go into another room, I can show in secret what the Turks are now doing.”

“But how you can make me see what the Turks are doing is more than I can understand,” replied the Emperor. “However, let us go, if it be only to see what fancy thou hast in thy head.”

Then the Emperor rose, and giving his arm to Virgil, went to a room apart, where the magician showed and explained to him (_per filo e per segna_) all that the Turks were about. And the Emperor was amazed at seeing clearly what Virgil had promised to show. Then he gave to Virgil the thousand crowns with his own hand, and was ever from that day his friend. And so Virgil rose in the world.

* * * * *

In this tale there is as quaint and naïve a mixture of traditions and ideas as one could desire. The fair Helen, in her tower of Troy, becomes Danae visited by Jupiter, and as the narrator had certainly seen Dantzic Golden Water, or some other cordial with gold-leaf in it, the story of the shower is changed into aureated wine. It is evident that the one who recast the legend endeavoured to make this incident intelligible. All the rest is mediæval. “Gold,” says Helen, “will preserve my beauty.” Thus the _aurum potabile_ of the alchemists was supposed to do the same as Paracelsus declared.

We all recognise a great idea when put into elaborate form by a skilled artist, but to perceive it as a diamond in the rough and recognise its value is apparently given to few. It is true that those few may themselves be neither poets nor geniuses—just as the Hottentot who can find or discern diamonds may be no lapidary or jeweller. What I would say is, that such ideas or motives abound in this Italian witch-lore to a strange extent.

Thus, the making Virgil a son of Jupiter by a Helen-Danae is a flight of mythologic invention, far surpassing in boldness anything given in the Neapolitan legends of the poet. Thomas Carlyle and Vernon Lee have expressed with great skill great admiration of the idea that Faust begat with the fair Helen the Renaissance. It was indeed a magnificent conception, but in very truth this fathering of Virgil, the grand type of poetry and magic, and of all earthly wisdom, by Jupiter on Helen-Danae is far superior to it in every way. For Virgil to the legend-maker represented the Gothic or Middle Ages in all their beauty and exuberance, their varied learning and splendid adventure, far more perfectly than did the mere vulgar juggler and thaumaturgist Faust, as the latter appears in every legend until Goethe transfigured him. And, strangely enough, the Virgilian cyclus, as I have given it, is as much of the Renaissance as it is classic or mediæval. The Medicis are in it to the life. In very truth it was Virgil, and not Faust, who was the typical magician _par éminence_ after Apollonius, some of whose legends he, in fact, inherited. And Virgil has come to us with a traditional character as marked and peculiar as any in Shakespeare—which Faust did not. He has passed through the ages not only as a magus and poet, but as a personality, and a very remarkable one.

There is another very curious, and, indeed, great idea lurking in these witch-Virgilian legends, especially set forth in this of the birth and continued in all. It is that there is in them a cryptic, latent heathenism, a sincere, lingering love of the old gods, and especially of the _dii minores_, of _fate_ or fays, and fauns and fairies, of spirits of the air and of rivers and fountains, an adoration of Diana as the moon-queen of the witches, and a far greater familiarity with incantations than prayers, or more love of sorceries than sacraments. Whenever it can be done, even as a post-scriptum, we have a conjuration or spell, as if the tale had awakened in the mind of the narrator a feeling of piety towards “the old religion.” The romances of Mercury, and Janus, and Vesta, and Apollo, and Diana all inspire the narrator to pray to them in all sincerity, just as a Catholic, after telling a legend of a saint, naturally repeats a prayer to him or a novena. It is the last remains of classic faith.

Or we may say, as things fell out, that the Goethean-Helen-Faust-Renaissance poem represents things as they were, or as they came to pass, as if it were the acme, while the Virgilian tradition which I here impart indicates things as they might have happened, had the stream of evolution been allowed to run on in its natural course, just as Julian the apostate (or rather apostle of the gospel of letting things be) held that progress or culture and science might have advanced just as surely and rapidly on the old heathen lines as any other. According to Heine, this would have saved us all an immense amount of trouble in our school-studies, in learning Latin and mythology, had we kept on as we were.

I mean by this that these traditions of Virgil indicate, as no other book does, the condition of a naïvely heathen mind, “suckled in a creed out-worn,” believing in the classic mythology half turned to fairies, much more sincerely, I fear, than many of my readers do in the Bible, and from this we may gather very curious reflection as to whether men may not have ideas of culture, honesty, and mercy in common, whatever their religion may be.