“_Hæc fabula docet_,” wrote Flaxius as he revised the proof with a red-lead pencil, for which he had paid a penny in the Calzolaio. “This tale teaches that in this life there is naught which hath not its ideal side or inner soul, which may raise us to higher reflection or greater profit, if we will but seek it. The lower the man the lower he looks, but it is all to his loss in the end. Now every chapter in this book, O my son—or daughter—may seem to thee only a rose of silk, yet do not stop at that, but try to find therein a perfume. For thou art thyself, I doubt not, such a rose, even if thy threads (as in most of us) be somewhat worn, torn, or faded, yet with a soul far better than many deem who see thee only afar off. And this my book is written for the perfume, not the silk of my reader. And there is no person who is better than what the world deems him or her to be who will not find in it marvellous comfort, solace, and satisfaction.” Thus wrote Flaxius. * * * * * Since I penned the foregoing from memory, I have found the Italian text or original, which had been mislaid for years. In it the tale is succinctly told within the compass of forty lines, and ends with these words: “‘Take the treasure, and give me the rose!’ “And so the spirit gave him the treasure and took the rose, and the poor man went home enriched, and the priest to sleep in peace—_fra gli eterni_—among the eternals.” I ought, of course, to have given scientifically only the text word for word, but _litera scripta manet_—what is written remains, and Flaxius is an old friend of mine, and I greatly desired to introduce him to my readers. And I doubt not that the reviewers will tell me if I have sinned! “Do a good deed, or aught that’s fit, You never again may hear of it; But make a slip, all will detect it, And every friend at once correct it!” THE GHOST OF MICHEL ANGELO “If I believed that spirits ne’er Return to earth once more, And that there’s naught unto them dear In the life they loved before; Then truly it would seem to me, However fate has sped, For souls there’s no eternity, And they and all are dead.” It must have struck every one who has read the life of Michel Angelo, that he was, like King James the First of England, “nae great gillravager after the girls,” or was far from being susceptible to love—in which he formed a great contrast to Raphael, and indeed to most of the Men of his Time—or any other. This appears to have impressed the people of Italy as something even more singular than his works, for which reason he appears in popular tradition as a good enough goblin, not without cheerfulness and song, but as one given to tormenting enamoured couples and teasing lady artists, whom he subsequently compliments with a gift. The legend is as follows: LO SPIRITO DI MICHELE ANGIOLO BUONAROTTI.