“A Proverb is a relic or remain of ancient philosophy, preserved among many ruins by its brevity and fitness.”—Aristotle ap. Synesius.“I Proverbi e la sapienza dell uomo
El Proverbio no fale.”Proverbi Veneti, da Pasqualigo.“He who leaves money leaves what may be lost,
But he who leaves a Proverb keen and true
Leaves that wherein his soul will never die.”C. G. Leland.“Tremendo leone, destriero animoso
Che in lungo riposo giaceste al suo pié.
Mostrate agli audaci cui grato e l’ errore
Che ’l vostro vigore scemato non è.”Gabriel Rossetti (1832).
There was once a young man of genius, and honest; he was a true gentleman (vero galantuomo), with a good heart.
At that time there was also in Rome a great magician who was called the Poet, but his real name was Virgilio. And the honest youth, whose name was Pollione, was a student with Virgilio, and also his servant.
Everybody may have heard who Virgilio was, and how he was a sorcerer above all others. He had a custom of giving to his friends sayings and proverbs, or sentences [190a] wherein there was always wisdom or a moral. His friends did not know it, but with every one of these sayings there went a spirit, and if they gave heed to the saying [190b] the spirit took care that from it some good resulted to them.
One day when Virgil gave sayings to his friends, he said to Pollione:
“When a man speaks to you, hear to the end all that he has to say before answering.”
After a while Pollione left Rome, and went to Florence. While wandering, he found himself not far from Lucca, in a solitary forest. And while resting he observed a stone, almost hidden under the grass, on which stone were letters, and, clearing it away, he read the word “Lift.” So he raised the stone, and found under it a small ancient vase, in which was a gold ring. Then he took the ring, and went his way.
And after weary wandering he found a small house, empty, into which he entered. It was one of the cabins in which peasants store chestnuts or grain or their implements for work. Therein was a partition of boards, and the youth lay down behind it and went to sleep.
After a little time there entered two friars, who never suspected there was anybody behind the screen, so they began to talk freely. And Pollione, awaking, listened to them.
One friar said to the other:
“It is now a year since old Father Girolamo died, who on his deathbed left to us both, to wear by turns, the gold ring which is hid somewhere in this wood in a vase under a stone on which is the word ‘Lift.’ Pity that he died before he could tell us just where it is. So we have sought and sought in vain, and so we must seek on, seek ever.”
When Pollione heard that, in the honesty of his heart, he was about to show himself and cry out, “Here is your ring!” when all at once he recalled the proverb of Virgilio to always hear all that a man has to say before answering. So he kept quiet, while the other friar said:
“Thou knowest that with that ring one can turn any man or woman into any kind of an animal. What wouldst thou do with it if it were thine?”
“I,” replied the other, “would at once change our Abbot into an ass, and beat him half to death ten times a day, because he put me in penitenza and in prison because I got drunk.”
“And I,” answered the second friar, “would change the proud, beautiful daughter of the count who lives in the castle yonder into a female dog, and keep her in that form till she should consent to be my mistress. Truly, I would give her a good lesson, and make her repent having scorned me.”
When Pollione heard such talk as this he reflected:
Then he took a piece of paper and wrote on it:
“L’ anello non avrai,
Ma asinello tu sarai,
Tu asinello diventerai
E non l’Abate,
Cosi dicono le Fate.”“The ring of gold is not for thee,
For thou thyself an ass shalt be;
Not the Abbot, but thou in truth,
This the Fairies say in sooth.”
This poem he placed on the stone which had covered the ring. And when the two friars found and read it, and discovered that the ring was gone, they verily believed that the fairies had overheard them and taken away the ring, and so, full of sorrow, returned to their convent.
Then Pollione, ever travelling on, one day met in Verona a clever, bold-looking young man, who was playing marvellous juggler’s tricks in a public place. And, looking closely at one another, each recognised in his observer the wizard who knew hidden things.
“Let us go together,” said Pollione. “We shall do better by mutual aid.”
So they went into partnership.
One evening they found themselves in a castle, where the signore treated them very kindly; and this lord had a beautiful daughter, who looked at Pollione with long glances, nor were his at her one whit shorter.
But the father seemed to be dying with some great sorrow; and at last he said to Pollione:
“Thou art a gentleman, and a man who is learned in books and wise. It may be that thou canst give me good advice and save me. If thou canst, there is nothing of mine which I will not give thee. And this is the story:
“A year ago I was sent on State affairs to Constantinople, where the Sultan promised me that within a certain time he would send me a lion as a gift for our Grand Duke.
“And after I had returned to Italy I told the Duke of this, at which he was greatly pleased. But when the time had come to an end the lion did not arrive. Then several of the courtiers who were my envious enemies made the Duke believe that the tale of the lion was all a lie, and a mere boast of mine.
“Then the Duke said to me that if the lion did not arrive within six months I should lose my head, and the allotted time is nearly past.”
“I believe that I can save you,” replied Pollione. “I will do it, if only to please your daughter.”
“Do it, and she shall be thine,” answered the father.
And the daughter smiled.
So the signore wrote to the Grand Duke that on a certain day the lion would be his, and invited him with all the court to his castle to see it.
Then there was at the time appointed a grand pavilion, in which was the Grand Duke, with all the courtiers and music.
The sorcerer Jannes, who was the companion of Pollione, had formed a deep attachment to the signore, as the latter had to him. Then the magician asked the lord to point out carefully to him all those who were his enemies.
And then from a tent there came forth a great lion. It was the magician, who had been touched by the ring.
The music sounded, and the people cried, “Evviva il lione!” Hurrah for the lion!
But when the lion, running round the course, came to the courtiers, he roared and became like a raging devil. He leaped over the barrier, and, attacking the courtiers, tore them limb from limb, and did terrible things. Nor could the Duke say anything, for it was his own fault.
Then the lion bounded away and was seen no more.
So the signore was saved, and Pollione wedded his daughter, and became very wealthy and a great lord.
And it is a true thing that there are wizards’ sayings or proverbs which cause good luck—buona fortuna; and if such a proverb remains always in the memory the spirit of the proverb will aid him who knows it. And to secure his aid one should repeat this spell:
“Spirito del proverbio!
Ti prego di stampare
Questo proverbio corretamente
Per sempre nella mia mente,
Ti prego di aiutarlo,
Sempre cosi la detta sara
Cagione della felicità.”
And this done, the proverb or poem will become a living spirit, which will aid you to become learned and wise. [194]
As the Jatakas of Buddha, which perhaps give the origin of the fable, were all intended to set forth the great doctrine of the immortality of the soul in transmigrations, so most stories like the preceding have for an aim or object the teaching of a spell. That which is here explained is very singular, yet the idea is one which would naturally occur to a student of magic. It is that in a deep meaning or moral there is a charm, and every charm implies a spirit. Hence a spirit may go with a proverb, which in its form is like a spell. It is simply a perception of the similarity of a saying or proverb to a charm. As the Pythagoreans and Neo-Platonists believed there were spirits in numbers and ideas, so a believer might even more rationally conceive of a soul in a wise saying.
VIRGIL AND MATTEO, OR ANOTHER PROVERB OF VIRGILIO.
“Proverbi, noti spontaneamente, e quasi inconsciamente sulle labbre del popolo, oltre contenere una profonda sapienza . . . manifestano la prontezza, il brio.”—Da Augusto Alfani: Proverbi e Modi Proverbiali (1882).
The following story is translated from the Romognola, or mountain dialect, also called Bolognesa, which is a rude, strange patois, believed to be very ancient. It was written by a native of Rocca Casciano, near Forli. The beginning of it in the original is as follows:
“Un Eter proverbi di Virgilio.—Ho iera una volta un om co des a Verzeglie che un su usen lera un ledre e vieva rube quaicosa, e é bon om ed nom Matei, e pregheva Verzeglie ed ulei de un det, ho proverbi, incontre a e le der.”
There was once a man who said to Virgil that one of his neighbours was a thief, who had stolen something from him, and the man, whose name was Matteo, begged Virgil to give him a saying or a proverb against the thief.
Virgil replied: “Truly thou hast been robbed; but be of good cheer, and thou mayst regain thine own again if thou wilt remember this saying:
“Se un dievele ti disprezza,
Tu guent un dievele e mezza,
E quan e lup la e tu agnel,
L’ e temp et tolá su pel.”“If a devil should injure thee,
Doubly a devil thou shouldst be;
And if a wolf thy lamb should win,
’Tis time for thee to take his skin.”
Matteo had learned that the thief, whose name was Bandelone, was in the habit of sitting by a pool or pond, and whenever any traveller came by he would cry that he had let fall a bag of gold into the water, and, being very lame and ill, could not dive for it. So he would promise a great reward to him who would recover it.
Then the traveller, deluded by the tale, would strip himself and dive into the pool, which was very deep, with steep banks. And while he was under water the crafty thief would seize on his clothes, arms, and money, mount his horse, and ride away.
Matteo reflected on this. Then he got a small bag and filled it with nails, so that it seemed to be heavy, as if with money. So he went to the pool, where Bandelone was waiting like a spider for flies, and seeing Matteo, whom he did not recognise, because the latter was disguised, he began to cry:
“Oh, kind sir, have pity on a poor man who has lost his whole fortune!” And so he went on to tell how he had dropped his bag full of gold in the water, and was too weak to dive for it, with all the rest of the tale.
Then Matteo consented to dive for the purse; but first of all put his horse, with all his arms and clothes, on the opposite bank, where they would be in safety.
Bandelone was angry enough at this, and cried:
“Why do you do that? Do you think I am a thief?”
“No, friend,” answered Matteo. “But if a thief should come to take my things thou wouldst be too weak to defend them, and he might do thee harm. It is all for thy good that I take such care.”
Bandelone wished all this kind care to the devil, but he had to submit. Then Matteo dived twice or thrice, and then came out of the water as if overjoyed, crying, as he held his bag of nails [196] on high:
“Ech! Ho alo trovè e sac d’ oro! Com le grand!”—Behold, I have found the bag of gold! How large it is!
Bandelone was indeed surprised at this; but, believing that Matteo had by chance really found a treasure, he cried:
“Yes, that is mine! Give it to me!”
“Zentiment! Fair and softly, friend,” replied Matteo. “Give me half, or I will keep it all.”
Bandelone would by no means consent to this. At last Matteo said:
“Well, as I do not know what is in the bag, I will take a risk. Give me your horse and sword and cloak for the bag. That is my last word, and if you utter another I will ride away with the bag and keep all.”
So Bandelone gave him his horse and cloak and a fine sword. And Matteo, when mounted, pitched him the bag, and rode away singing merrily:
“If a devil should injure thee,
Doubly a devil thou must be;
And if a wolf thy lamb should win,
’Tis time for thee to take his skin.”
VIRGILIO AND THE FATHER OF TWELVE CHILDREN.
A Legend from Colle di Val d’Elsa, Tuscany.
“In the earliest form of the legend, Virgil appears not only as doing no harm, but also as a great benefactor.”—Comparetti: Virgil in the Middle Ages.
Once when Virgil was in Colle di Val d’Elsa, he found that the utmost poverty and wretchedness prevailed among the people. Everywhere were men and women wailing and weeping because they could not get food for their children.
Virgil began by giving alms right and left, but was obliged to cease, finding that all his means would be but a trifle towards relieving such suffering. Therefore he resolved to go to the Emperor and beg him to use his authority in the matter. But while in the first furlong of his journey he met a man wailing bitterly, and on asking the cause, the one who wept replied:
“Caro Signore, I weep in despair not for myself, but for my twelve children, who, starving, lie on the bare ground. And this day we are to be turned out of the house because I owe for the rent. And I have gone hither and thither to seek work and found none, and now thou knowest all.”
Then Virgil, who was kind of heart, replied:
“Be not afraid of the future. Holy Providence which takes care of the birds of the air will also provide for you.”
“My dear lord,” replied the poor man, “I trust it is true what you tell me, but I have waited a long time now for Holy Providence without seeing it.”
“Hope yet a little longer,” answered Virgil. “Just now I will go with you to your house and see how I can aid you.”
“Thank you, my lord,” replied the poor man, whose doubts in a Holy Providence began to weaken. So they went together, and truly found twelve children with their mother, well-nigh dying from cold, hunger, and exposure.
Then Virgil, having relieved them, thought deeply what could be done to help all this wretchedness, and invoked a certain spirit in whom he trusted—un spirito di sua fiducia—asking how he could aid the suffering Colligiani.
And the spirit replied:
“Sorti da quella casa,
E passa disotto a una torre,
E nel passare
Si senti a chiamare
A nome, alze il capo,
Ma non videte nessuno,
Soltanto senti una voce,
Una voce che le disse
‘Sali su questa torre!’”“Leave this house, in going,
Thou’lt pass beneath a tower,
And hear a voice which calls thee,
Yet looking, thou’lt see nothing,
Yet still will hear it crying,
‘Virgil, ascend the tower!’”
Virgil did this, and heard the Voice call him, when he ascended the tower and there beheld a small red goblin, who was visible to him alone, because Virgil had invoked him. And the Spirit said to him:
“Behold this little dog. Return with it to the house whence thou hast come, and go forth with the poor man, and take the dog with you. And where the dog stops there dig!”
And they did so. And they went away, and at last the dog stopped at a place, and the poor man began to dig. And lo! ere long the earth became red, and he came to iron ore. And from this discovery resulted the iron factory of Colle, and by it that of glass; wherever the dog led they found minerals. So from that time there was no more suffering because there was work for all.
This legend is a full confirmation of what I have elsewhere remarked, that these “witch-stories” have almost invariably a deeper meaning or moral than is to be found in the “popular tales” generally prevalent among peasants and children. Thus, while we find in this the magician Virgil, his invocation to a familiar spirit, the apparition of the Red Goblin of the Tower and the mystical dog of the Kobold, or goblins of the mines, there is with it a noble reflection that the best way to relieve suffering is to provide work. In an ordinary fairy-tale the magician would have simply conjured up a treasure and have given it to the poor.
Apropos of the word goblin, which is generally supposed to be from the German Kobold, I would observe that the Greek κοβαλι or cobali are defined in a curious old French work as lutins, “household spirits, or domestic fairies.”
VIRGILIO AS A PHYSICIAN, OR VIRGIL AND THE MOUSE.
“Now to signify destruction and death they paint a mouse. For it gnaweth all things, and works ruin.”—Hori Apolli: Hieroglyphica; Rome, 1606.
There once lived in Florence a young gentleman—un gran signore—who wedded a beautiful young lady to whom he was passionately attached, as she indeed was for a time to him. But “fickle and fair is nothing rare,” and it came to pass that before long she gave her love again to an intimate friend of her husband. And the latter did not indeed perceive the cause, but he was much grieved at the indifference to him which his wife began to show.
Then the wife began to tell her lover how her husband had scolded her for her neglect, and how much afraid she was lest their intrigue would be discovered, and that she was so uneasy that she was ready to poison her spouse “if she could only get rid of him!”
The lover replied that there were many ways to get rid of a man without really killing him, for that a violent death would lead to suspicion, inquiry, scandal, and perhaps legal punishment. And then he hinted that a better method would be to consult a witch.
The lady lost no time in running to one, to whom she told her whole story, and what she wanted, and as she began by paying a large fee, the sorceress promised she should have her wish.
Then the witch prepared with magic skill a flask of water, and a powder. The water she gave to the wife, and bade her sprinkle it over her husband’s clothes. But she changed herself into a mouse, and having been carried to the bedroom which the married couple occupied, she gnawed a hole in the mattress, and crawling in, dragged after her the bag, and so remained hidden.
When the husband went to bed, there came over him an utter weakness and sickness, so that he lay in pain as if dead, and this grew worse day by day. His parents in vain called in the first physicians, and every remedy was resorted to without result.
Then Virgilio, who knew much and suspected all the rest of this affair, was angry that so vile a woman and her gallant should inflict such torture on an excellent and innocent man, and resolved to have a hand in the affair.
Therewith he dressed himself as a medico, or doctor, from some distant land, saying that he had heard of this extraordinary case of illness, and would like to see the sufferer. To which the parents replied that he was welcome to do so, since all the professors of medicine in Florence could make nothing of it.
The doctor looked steadily for some time at the patient, who appeared to be in such utter prostration and misery as might have moved the hardest heart. By him sat his wife, pretending to weep, but counting to herself with pleasure the time which would pass before her husband should die—giving now and then a suspicious glance at the new-comer.
Then Virgilio said to the wife:
“Signora, I beg you to leave the room for a while. I must be alone with this man!”
Whereupon she, with a great show of tears and passion, declared she would not leave the room, because her husband might die at any minute, and she could never forgive herself were she to be absent, and so on. To which Virgilio angrily replied, that she might depart in peace, with the assurance that her husband would be cured. So she went out, cursing him in her heart, if there was a chance that he could do as he declared.
Then Virgilio took a mirror which he had brought with him, and placing it before the eyes of the invalid, bade him look at it as steadily and as long as he could. The young man did so, and then said, as if in despair:
“For me there is no remedy, O doctor, for what you show me is worse than my disorder, as I supposed it to be. Truly I see death, and not myself.”
“Courage!” replied Virgilio. “You shall be cured.”
“Cure me,” he answered, “and you shall have all that I possess.”
“Nay, I will cure you first,” said Virgilio, “and then settle on easier terms.”
The patient looked steadily at the mirror. Virgilio rapped thrice with a wand, when there suddenly leaped from the bed a mouse, which uttered three horrible, piercing screams. The doctor bade the invalid continue to look steadily at himself in the mirror, and for his life not to cease doing so. Without turning round, the doctor ordered the mouse to enter the bed and lick up and bring away with her on her tongue all the water which the wife had sprinkled on the clothes. And this done, he bade her bring again out of the bed all the powder which she had placed there. Which being effected, he ordered the mouse to make of it a pellet, and devour it; but here she resisted, for to do that meant death to her and a cure to the invalid.
But the doctor was inflexible, and she had to obey. Nor had she begun to eat it before he bade the husband rise, which he did, feeling perfectly recovered, though much confused at such a sudden change.
Then Virgilio ordered the mouse to mount the bed, and lo! she changed to a woman, for she was, of course, the witch who had done all this devil’s work. And the sorceress bade them call parents and wife and all. And when they came the witch said:
“Evil my life has been, and evil will be the death which in a few minutes will come to me; yet am I not so evil as this woman, who would have killed by the worst suffering the husband who loved her. For hell hath many who are bad, but the worst are they who return evil for good. And he who hath ended this thing by his power is the great Virgilio, who is the lord of magic in all this land.”
Then she told, step by step, how the wife had turned her heart from her husband, almost as soon as she was married, and wished to kill him, and had paid her to bewitch him. Then Virgilio opened the window and the witch indeed died, or it was the last seen of her, for with a horrible howl she vanished in the night, flying away.
The husband recovered, and would have given Virgilio all his wealth, but he would accept nothing but the young man’s friendship. And the guilty wife was imprisoned for life in a castle, far away in the mountains and alone.
Virgil appears as a physician so distinctly in this and other tales as to induce the question whether he had not, quite apart from his reputation as poet and magician, some fame as professor of the healing art. And in fact, as I have shown in the legend of Virgil and the Spirit of Mirth, he on one occasion at least is, by Pæonia, identified with Esculapius. The latter is described as having “a countenance bright with joy and serenity,” and being very benevolent and genial—wherein he agrees with the poet. The God of Medicine, it is expressly stated, used “sweet incantations,” or poetical spells, which is also significant. He was also associated with Apollo and the Muses, as in the temple of Messina. The author of the great “Dizionario Storico Mitologico” (1824) plainly declares that “Esculapius is another form of Apollo, in whom poetry and medicine were combined. In the temple devoted to him in Sycione, Esculapius is associated with Diana. In a Roman bas-relief he appears with the Three Graces; in one of these legends Virgil is associated with four Venuses.” Making every allowance, it must be admitted that, comparing all that is known of the God of Medicine with what appears in these legends of the Mantuan bard, there is a remarkable general likeness between the two. Virgil is also, here and there, curiously identified with the serpent and the staff, which were the symbols of Esculapius; and, as I have before noted, Buddha, who had so much in common with Virgil, was in his first incarnation a physician.
THE ONION OF CETTARDO.
“On, Stanley, on!”—Marmion.“Were I in noble Stanley’s place,
When Marmion urged him to the chase,
The word which you would then descry
Might bring a tear to every eye.”—Anonymous.
Virgil is introduced, I may say, almost incidentally in the following tale, not by any means as coryphæus or hero, as is indeed the case in several other stories, which fact, on due reflection, is of importance, because it indicates unmistakably that he is so well known in popular tradition as to be recognisable even in a minor rôle. It is as when one swears by a saint, or Bacchus—in Florence one hears the latter invoked forty times where a Christian deity is apostrophized once—’tis not to form a portion of the sentence, but to give it force, as Chinese artillerymen, when they fire a ball at an enemy, sometimes grease the mouth of a gun, to increase the loudness of the report and thereby frighten the foe. Which figure of a saint is not that of Saint Malapropos, because, as the reader may note in another tale, Virgil is very seriously described as a santo.
Now to the narrative. Sancte Virgile, ora pro nobis!
In very ancient times there were few families in Cettardo, and these were all perfectly equal, there being among them neither rich nor poor. They all worked hard in fields or forests for a living, and were like a company of friends or brothers.
And of evenings, when they were not too weary, they met many together in some house, all in love and harmony, to talk about the crops, and their children, or repeat the rosario, [203] or discuss their clothing, or cattle, or whatever interested them.
These people were all as one, and had no head or chief. [204a] But one evening a very little girl came out with a thing (sorti con una cosa) which astonished all who were present, because the child had received no instruction, and did not know what a school meant. And what she said was this:
“Babbo—papa—I wish to tell thee something in presence of all who are here assembled, with all due respect to them, since there are certainly so many here who could with greater propriety set it forth. [204b] Therefore, I trust you will pardon and bear with me, because I am but an infant.”
Then all exclaimed in chorus: “Speak, and we will listen to thee!”
And then the infant, in this fashion, spoke:
“Know that this night I have spoken with a spirit, the bel Folettino col beretta rossa—the beautiful fairy with the red cap—and it told me that for this our land we have no name or coat of arms. But the time has come to have that which shall represent the country, and therefore we should choose a chief who will open commerce for us, and found a school so that our young people shall escape from ignorance.”
“Truly, thou hast spoken well!” cried all present. “Evviva il capo—hurrah for a chief!—and that chief shall be thy father, dear child!”
“Moreover,” added the good girl, “I will, to show my gratitude, give you the design for the armorial bearings, and in due time tell you all that is needful to be done. All of that will I find out, and also a name for the country.”
“Do so, and deserve our gratitude.”
“I thank you again,” said the girl, “and I will pay attention to the subject, since you show such sympathy.”
The next day she went to herd a flock of sheep, as was her custom; and then, lying down on the ground as wild boars are wont to do, [204c] said:
“Una voce le rispose:
“Chiama e chiama più forte.
E chiama ancora per tre volte
E chiama il tuo prottetore,
Chi é con te a tutte le ore
E mai non ti lascera se sempre
Lui invochera.”“Spirit, who art the chief of all the spirits!
Who art the king of all the sorcerers!
Bring unto me some object which may serve
To represent our land, and be its crest.”
“To which a voice replied:
“Call out aloud, then more forcibly,
And yet again three times, and unto him
Who is thy guardian and ever with thee,
And who will never leave thee—call to him!”
“And who art thou who speakest to me?” asked the girl.
“I am the Spirit of the Red Cap.”
“And who is my protector?”
“The magician Virgil,” replied the Voice.
Then she invoked Virgil, who appeared in person, and asked what she would have.
She replied that she had been charged to find a name and object to represent the land.
“It is well,” answered Virgil. “I have already written the name on a leaf; now take this thing in thy hand”—here he gave her an onion—“and cast it into yonder cavern, from which there is an underground way.”
The girl obeyed; the onion spun round and rolled away; she followed it afar, till at last it stopped at a leaf on which was written “Cettardo.” And it was in this spot where the onion stopped that the town in after time was built, and where the girl found the leaf is now the municipal palace. And so, one by one, great buildings rose. Thus came the name and arms of Cettardo.
In due time the maid had a lover, and it was said that these two were the only ones who could go through the subterranean passage.
And it hath been, and may be still, proved that any person attempting this passage will after a few steps be suffocated, and can go no further.
If we compare this legend with other traditions, there can be little doubt that it is at least of Roman origin. The great veneration for the onion among the Egyptians—“Happy people,” wrote Juvenal, “to have gods growing in their gardens!”—which passed to the Romans, probably, in later days through the priests of Serapis and Isis, [206] and the many mysteries connected with it, fully account for its being chosen as the symbol of a city. Its traditions were greatly mingled and confused with those of the garlic and the leek, but it was above all other plants a protector against sorcery; that is, against all evil influence. Where onions could not help, nothing availed, or as it was expressed, bulbus nihil profuerit. It would appear from the conjectures of Nork (Andeutung eines Systemes der Mythologie, p. 125) that the onion was the sign or crest of the pyramid of Cheops, as it is of Cettardo.
It is, however, in the mention of a subterranean passage full of mephitic vapour, which seems to have no connection with the tale whatever, that the clue to the whole tradition may be found. The people wanting a name and a site for a city, receive them from a pythoness or sibyl, the two being identified in many legends. The grotto of the Sybil near Naples is approached by a long subterranean road, over which I have myself passed—being carried on the back of a strong peasant-guide. Just in the middle of the wet, winding cavern, I said: “You are a good horse.”
“I am particularly good at eating macaroni,” he replied, and stopped. This was equivalent to begging.
“Horses who talk need the spur,” I replied, giving him a gentle reminder with my heel. He laughed, and trotted on. However, he got his “macaroni.”
That the pythoness, or female oracle, was first intoxicated with the vapour of carbonic acid gas in a cavern, and that her utterances were recorded on leaves which blew about loosely and were then gathered and put together, is well known, and it is this, apparently, which is meant in this tale by the flying leaf bearing the name of Cettardo. Plutarch, in his “Treatise on Abandoned Oracles,” declares that “the terrestrial effluvium was the conductor of the god into the body of the Pythia.” As the vapours disappeared, the oracle became dumb, or, as Cicero expresses it:
“They ceased because this terrestrial virtue, which moved the soul of the Pythia by divine inspiration, disappeared in time, as we have seen rivers dried up or turned away into other beds.”
The onion was a symbol of fertility and increase of population, therefore it was well adapted to serve as a fetish for a new city. It was also among the Egyptians par eminence typical of the resurrection, so that no woman was buried without one. [207]
It may be observed that in this legend Virgil appears as a guardian spirit or god, certainly not as a mortal.
It would almost seem as if there were an undercurrent of genial satire or mockery in the part where the young Pythia graciously assures the simple peasants that, out of sheer gratitude and to oblige them, she will consult with—of all the gods—the Robin Good-fellow, or goblin of the red-cap! who in all tales, Italian as well as English, is ever a tricksy sprite, more given to teasing and kissing servant-girls, and playing with children and cats, than aught more dignified. When we remember that the object of this gracious benevolence is to make her father chief or king, it verily appears as if the whole were a “put-up job” between parent and child.
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