“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:
“Spirito, capo di tutti i spiriti!
Re dei ré dei Maghi!
Portami qui presenti un hoggetto
Che possa servirmi per rappresentare
Un arme.”
“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.
* * * * *