The anonymous Florentine, in his comment on the _Divine Comedy_, softens the matter a little, and at the same time imports into it a confusion of thought very difficult to unravel, when he says: ‘This art of magic may be employed in two ways; for either magicians compose by cunning certain bodies, all compact of air, which yet appear substantial, or else they show things having the appearance of reality but not in truth real, and in both these ways of working was Michael a great master.’ There is an attempt here to vindicate for Scot a higher place than that of the mere charlatan, but the commentator’s distinction is one not readily or clearly to be apprehended, and we may greatly doubt if it ever entered his author’s mind. The hint thus given was speedily acted upon. For to it, no doubt, we owe the numerous tales regarding Michael Scot of which Benvenuto da Imola and the anonymous Florentine speak. Landino gives a specimen, as follows. During the philosopher’s residence in Bologna he used to invite his friends to dinner, but without making any preparation for their entertainment. When the hour struck, and the guests were seated at table, they found it nevertheless covered with the choicest viands. Their host would then explain that one dish came from the royal kitchen at Paris, another from that of the English king, and so on with the rest. Jacopo della Lana repeats the same story, but with certain variations.[301] According to this commentator, Michael Scot always kept the best company, living in all respects as a gentleman and cavalier. In his tricks of the table he did not spare even his own master, but, while choosing his boiled meat from Paris, and his roasts from London, would always procure his _entrées_ from the King of Sicily’s provision. The anonymous Florentine adds another tale to the same purpose, saying that his guests once asked Scot to show them a new marvel. The month was January, yet, in spite of the season, he caused vines with fresh shoots and ripe clusters of grapes to appear on the table. The company were bidden each of them to choose a bunch, but their host warned them not to put forth their hands till he should give the sign. At the word ‘cut,’ lo, the grapes disappeared, and the guests found themselves each with a knife in one hand, and in the other his neighbours sleeve. Francesco da Buti adds the significant note, ‘all this was nothing but a cheat; for they only seemed to feast, and either did not really do so, or else took the dishes for something quite other than they really were.’ This is enough to show that the sense we have given to Dante’s words is one which found favour in early times.