Legends That Every Child Should Know; a Selection of the Great Legends of All Times for Young People

CHAPTER XIV

THE BEATO TORELLO DA POPPI

In that time in which the portion of Tuscany called Casentino was not yet subject to the Florentines, but was ruled by its own counts, in the lands of Poppi, an important place in that valley through which runs the river Arno, and not far from its source, a son was born to a certain good man named Paolo, to whom he gave the name of Torello, and whom, when a suitable age, he not only taught to fear God, and to lead a Christian life, but sent to school, that he might learn the first principles of letters—which he soon did—and to avoid evil companions and imitate the good. The young Torello, being accustomed to this life, and his father dying, for some time proceeded from good to better.

But that not pleasing our common enemy, who always goes about seeking whom he may devour, he so tempted Torello—God permitting it, for future and greater good—that he abandoned a virtuous life, and gave himself to the pursuit of the pleasures of the world; so that instead of being praised for his blameless and religious life, he was censured by all, and had become the very opposite of what he had at first been.

But the blessed Lord—who had never abandoned him, though He had left him to wander, in order to permit him to become a true mirror of penitence—called him to himself in this manner; as he was one day wandering and seeking amusement with his idle companions, a cock that was on a perch outside a window suddenly fell, and alighted on his shoulder, and crowed three times, and then flew back to the perch. Torello, calling to mind how the Apostle Peter had in a similar manner been made to gee his guilt, awaked from his sleep of vice and sin in a state of wonder and fear; and thinking that this could have happened only by divine Providence, and to show him that he was in the power of the devil, left his companions instantly, and in penitence and tears sought the Abbot of Poppi, of the order of Vallombrosa; and commending himself to his prayers, threw himself at his feet, humbly begging for the robe of a mendicant friar, since he desired to serve God in the humblest manner. The abbot wondered much, knowing by common report Torello to be a youth of most incorrect life, to see him thus kneeling in contrition before him, and endeavoured, together with the monks, to persuade him to take their habit of St. John Gualberto. But at last, seeing he had no heart for it, and remained constant to his first request, he at last granted it; and he became a poor brother, and almost a desert hermit, for having received the benediction of the abbot, without communicating with either his family or friends, he left that country and took his way toward the most desert and savage places of the mountains, wandering among them for eight days, and passing the night wherever it chanced to overtake him. But having at last come to a great rock, near a place called Avellanato, he remained there, adopting it for a cell eight days more, weeping for his sins, praying, and imploring God to pardon him; living all this time on three small loaves, which he had brought with him, and on wild herbs like the animals; and being much pleased with the place, he determined to make a cell under that great rock, and there spend all the days of this life, serving God with fasts, vigils, discipline, and prayers, and bitterly lamenting his past sins and evil life.

Having taken this resolution, he went to his own country to put his affairs in order; and all his relatives and friends came about him, praying him with much earnestness, if he sought to serve God, to leave this life of a wild beast and join some order, living like other monks. But all was of no avail; and selling all his goods, he gave the price to the poor, reserving to himself only a small sum of money to build a cell. And he returned to his solitude with a mason, who made for him a miserable cell under that same rock; and he bought near it enough land for a small garden, and there established himself, practising the most severe austerities.

Having now spoken of the penitence and life of the Beato Torello, we must make mention of the great gifts and grace which he received from God during his life, and which were often granted to him in behalf of those who commended themselves to him in faith and devotion.

A poor woman of Poppi, who had only one son, three years old, going to the spring to wash her clothes, took him with her; and he having strayed from her a little way while she was washing, a savage wolf seized him and carried him away, and the poor woman's shrieks could be heard almost at Poppi, while she could do nothing but commend the child to God. While the wolf was escaping with his prey between his teeth, he came, as it pleased God—who thus began to make known the reward of his service—to the cell of the Beato Torello; who, when he saw this, instantly ordered the wolf, in God's name, to lay the child on the ground, safe and sound; which command the wolf no sooner heard than he came to him immediately, and laid the child at his feet. And after he had, with evident humility, received the directions of the holy father, that neither he, nor any of the wolves his companions, should do any harm to any person of that country, he departed, and returned to the forest; and the servant of God took the half-dead child into his cell, where he made a prayer to the Lord, and he was immediately healed of the wounds the wolf's teeth had made in his throat. And when his mother came seeking him with great lamentation and sorrow, he graciously restored him to her alive and well, but with the command that while he lived she should never reveal this miracle.

Carlo, Count of Poppi, being very fond of the Beato Torello, sent him by his steward, one evening in Carnival, a basket full of provisions, praying the good father to accept it for love of him. The steward also carried him many other gifts, which some good ladies, knowing where he was going, took the opportunity to send by his hand.

Having arrived at the cell, he presented them all to the padre, who thanked him much, and returned him the empty baskets; when he took occasion to enquire, how he, being alone, could possibly eat so much in one evening. And Torello, seeing that the steward thought him a great eater, answered: "I am not alone, as you suppose; my companion will come from the woods before long, who has a great appetite, and he will help me." And the steward, hearing this, hid himself in the wood not far from the hermitage, to see who this could be who the padre said had such a fine appetite. He had not waited long when he saw a great wolf go straight to the door of the saint's cell, who opened it for him, and fed him until he had devoured everything that the steward had brought; and he then began to caress the saint, as a faithful and affectionate dog would his master; and this he continued to do until Torello gave him permission to go, and reminded him that neither he, nor any of his companions, should do any harm to the people of that place until they were at such a distance as to be out of hearing of the bell of the monastery, which the wolf promised to do and obey, by bowing his head. The servant, having seen and heard this, returned home, and related it to the count and the others, to their great amazement.

There was a lady of Bologna, named Vittoriana, who made a pilgrimage to the holy place in Vernia, where the glorious St. Francis received the stigmata; and there her two children fell ill with a violent and dangerous fever; and being, in consequence, much distressed and afflicted, she consulted with some ladies from Poppi, whose devotion had also brought them to the same place, who advised her to take her children, as soon as possible, to the blessed Torello, and commend them to him, that by means of his prayers God would restore their health. And going to him, she commended them to him with faith and tears and hope beyond the power of words to describe. And truly it was not in vain; for the holy man, who was most pitiful, kneeled down and prayed to the Lord for her and her children as only the true servants of God pray; and having so done, he took some water from the spring of which he usually drank and gave it to the children, and they were entirely cured and delivered from that fever. And what is more, the water of that fountain is to this day called the fountain of St. Torello, and is a sovereign remedy against every kind of fever to those who drink of it, as experience has testified and still testifies.

But at last, in the year of our salvation twelve hundred and eighty-two, the saint having reached the eightieth year of his life, and spent them all in the service of God—many of his good works being unknown—an angel brought him this message: "Rejoice, Torello, for the time is come when thou shalt receive the crown of glory thou hast so long desired, and the reward in paradise of ail thy labour in the service of God; for thirty days from this time, on the sixteenth of March, thou shalt be delivered from the prison of this world."

The blessed Torello, having heard this, continued all his devout exercises until the end, which approaching, he went to the abbot and confessed his sins for the last time, and received the holy communion from his hands; and they embraced each other, and he returned to his hermitage. And he took leave of one of his disciples, named Pietro, and exhorted him to persevere in God's service; and having with many affectionate prayers recommended his country and the people of it to the blessing of God, praying especially that it should not be ravaged by wolves, he departed in peace.

And all the people of the parishes around, hearing of his death, hastened to the hermitage; and all desiring that his holy body should repose in their church, a great controversy arose, and much scandal would have ensued, had not the Abbot of Poppi passed into the midst of them and convinced them it was the will of God it should be laid in his monastery; to which they all finally agreed. And a wonderful and miraculous event occurred; for while they were all standing around the holy body, a wolf came in with a little pig in his mouth, and passing through them without fear, placed it at the foot of the bier, and went away.

CHAPTER XV

THE LORELEI

  I know not whence it rises,    This thought so full of woe:  But a tale of the times departed    Haunts me—and will not go.  The air is cool, and it darkens,    And calmly flows the Rhine;  The mountain peaks are sparkling    In the sunny evening-shine.  And yonder sits a maiden,    The fairest of the fair;  With gold is her garment glittering,    And she combs her golden hair.  With a golden comb she combs it,    And a wild song singeth she,  That melts the heart with a wondrous    And powerful melody.  The boatman feels his bosom    With a nameless longing move;  He sees not the gulfs before him,    His gaze is fixed above.  Till over boat and boatman    The Rhine's deep waters run;  And this with her magic singing    The Lorelei hath done!

CHAPTER XVI

THE PASSING OF ARTHUR

  So all day long the noise of battle roll'd  Among the mountains by the winter sea.  Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,  Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their Lord,  King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,  The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,  And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,  A broken chancel with a broken cross.  That stood on a dark strait of barren land:  On one side lay the Ocean, and on one  Lay a great water, and the moon was full.  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:  "The sequel of to-day unsolders all  The goodliest fellowship of famous knights  Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep  They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we  Shall never more, at any future time,  Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,  Walking about the gardens and the halls  Of Camelot, as in the days that were.  I perish by this people which I made—  Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again  To rule once more; but, let what will be, be,  I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm  That without help I cannot last till morn.  Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,  Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how  In those old days, one summer noon, an arm  Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,  Holding the sword—and how I row'd across  And took it, and have worn it, like a king;  And, wheresoever I am sung or told  In aftertime, this also shall be known:  But now delay not: take Excalibur,  And fling him far into the middle mere:  Watch what thou seest and lightly bring me word."  To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:  "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,  Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm—  A little thing may harm a wounded man;  Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,  Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."  So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,  And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,  Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,  Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang  Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down  By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,  Came on the shining levels of the lake.  There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,  And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,  Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth  And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:  For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,  Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work  Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long  That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,  This way and that dividing the swift mind,  In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd  Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd  There in the many-knotted water flags,  That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.  So strode he back slow to the wounded King.  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:  "Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?  What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:  "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,  And the wild water lapping on the crag."  To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:  "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,  Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd  Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:  For surer sign had followed either hand,  Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.  This is a shameful thing for men to lie.  Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,  As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing  I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."  Then went Sir Bedivere the second time  Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,  Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;  But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,  How curiously and strangely chased, he smote  His palms together, and he cried aloud:  "And if indeed I cast the brand away,  Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,  Should thus be lost forever from the earth,  Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.  What good should follow this, if this were done?  What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,  Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.  Were it well to obey then, if a king demand  An act unprofitable, against himself?  The King is sick, and knows not what he does.  What record, or what relic of my lord  Should be to aftertime, but empty breath  And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,  Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,  Some one might show it at a joust of arms,  Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,  Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.  Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps  Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'  So might some old man speak in the aftertime  To all the people, winning reverence.  But now much honour and much fame were lost."  So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,  And hid Excalibur the second time,  And so strode back slow to the wounded King.  Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:  "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:  "I heard the water lapping on the crag,  And the long ripple washing in the reeds."  To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:  "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,  Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!  Authority forgets a dying king,  Laid widow'd of the power in his eye  That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,  For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,  In whom should meet the offices of all,  Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;  Either from lust of gold, or like a girl  Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.  Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,  And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:  But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,  I will arise and slay thee with my hands."  Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,  And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged  Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,  And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand  Made lightings in the splendour of the moon,  And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,  Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,  Seen where the moving isles of winter shock  By night with noises of the Northern Sea.  So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur:  But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,  And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.  And lightly went the other to the King.  Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:  "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.  Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:  "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems  Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,  Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,  Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,  So great a miracle as yonder hilt.  Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;  But when I look'd again, beheld an arm,  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.  That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him  Three times, and drew him under In the mere."  And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:  "My end draws nigh;'tis time that I were gone.  Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,  And bear me to the margin; yet I fear  My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."  So saying, from the pavement he half rose,  Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,  And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes  As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere  Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,  And would have spoken, but he found not word;  Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,  O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,  And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.  But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,  Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed  When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,  Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!  I fear it is too late, and I shall die."  But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,  Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,  Larger than human on the frozen hills.  He heard the deep behind him, and a cry  Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.  Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves  And barren chasms, and all to left and right  The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based  His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang  Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—  And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,  And the long glories of the winter moon.  Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,  Dark as a funeral scarf from stern to stern,  Beneath them; and descending they were ware  That all the decks were dense with stately forms,  Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these  Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose  A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,  And, as it were one voice, an agony  Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills  All night in a waste land, where no one comes  Or hath come, since the making of the world.  Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge."  So to the barge they came. There those three Queens  Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.  But she, that rose the tallest of them all  And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,  And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,  And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,  And dropping bitter tears against a brow  Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white  And colourless, and like the withered moon  Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;  And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops  Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—  That made his forehead like a rising sun  High from the dias-throne—were parch'd with dust;  Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,  Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.  So like a shatter'd column lay the King;  Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,  From spur to plume a star of tournament,  Shot thro' the lists of Camelot, and charged  Before the eyes of ladles and of kings,  Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:  "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?  Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?  For now I see the true old times are dead,  When every morning brought a noble chance,  And every chance brought out a noble knight.  Such times have been not since the light that led  The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.  But now the whole Round Table is dissolved  Which was an image of the mighty world,  And, I the last, go forth companionless,  And the days darken round me, and the years,  Among new men, strange faces, other minds."  And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:  "The old order changeth, yielding place to new,  And God fulfils himself in many ways,  Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.  Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?  I have lived my life, and that which I have done  May He within himself make pure! but thou,  If thou shouldst never see my face again,  Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer  Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice  Rise like a fountain for me night and day.  For what are men better than sheep or goats  That nourish a blind life within the brain,  If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer  Both for themselves and those who call them friend?  For so the whole round earth is every way  Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.  But now farewell. I am going a long way  With these thou seest-if indeed I go  (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)  To the island-valley of Avilion;  Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,  Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies  Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns  And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea.  Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."  So said he, and the barge with oar and sail  Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan  That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,  Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood  With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere  Revolving many memories, till the hull  Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,  And on the mere the wailing died away.  But when that moan had past for evermore,  The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn  Amazed him, and he groan'd, "The King is gone."  And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,  "From the great deep to the great deep he goes"  Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb  The last hard footstep of that iron crag;  Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,  "He passes to be King among the dead,  And after healing of his grievous wound  He comes again; but—if he come no more—  O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,  Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed  On that high day, when, clothed with living light,  They stood before his throne in silence, friends  Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?"  Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint  As from beyond the limit of the world,  Like the last echo born of a great cry,  Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice  Around a king returning from his wars.  Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb  Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw,  Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,  Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,  Down that long water opening on the deep  Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go  From less to less and vanish into light.  And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

CHAPTER XVII

RIP VAN WINKLE

The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book worm.