“But as regards a vast proportion of the ‘sweet and light’ writing on the Renaissance and on Italy which is at present fashionable,” writes Flaxius, “I am reminded of the ‘esthetic axe’ems’ of an American writer, the first of which were: “‘Art is a big thing. Always bust into teers wen you see a pictur.’ “‘Bildins and churches arn’t of no account unless they drive you clean out of your census.’” THE WITCH OF THE ARNO “Il spirito usci dal fiume a un tratto, E venne come Dio l’aveva fatto, E presentando come un cortegiano Alla donna gentil la destra mano, ‘Scusate,’ disse si io vengo avanti E se vi do la mano sensa guanti.”—_Paranti_. The following, as a French book of fables says, is “a poem, or rather prose rhymed:” “Two pretty maids one morning sat by the rushing stream. It murmured glittering in the sun; it seemed to sing as on it run, enchanting while a wantoning, as in a merry dream. “Said one unto the other: ‘I wish, and all in truth, that the glorious dancing river were as fine and brave a youth. Its voice is like an angel’s, its drops of light like eyes so bright are beautiful I wis. Oh, ne’er before, on sea or shore, did I love aught like this.’ “A voice came from the river: ‘For a love thou hast chosen me; henceforward, sweet, for ever thine own love I will be. Wherever there is water, of Florence the fairest daughter, by night or day or far away, thou’lt find me close by thee.’ “She saw bright eyes a shining in dewdrops on her path—she returned unto the palace, she entered in a bath. ‘How the water doth caress me; ’tis embracing me, I vow! _M’abbracia_, _mi baccia_—my lover has me now. Since fate has really willed it, then to my fate I bow.’ “Seven years have come and vanished, seven years of perfect bliss. Whenever she washed in water, she felt her lover’s kiss. She washed full oft, I ween; ’twas plain to be seen there was no maid in Florence who kept herself so clean. “Little by little, as summer makes frogs croak in a ditch, there spread about a rumour that the damsel was a witch. They showed her scanty mercies; with cruelty extreme, with blows and bitter curses, they cast her in the stream. ‘If she be innocent, she’ll sink, so hurl her from the Arno’s brink; if guilty, she will swim!’ “Up rose from the sparkling river a youth who was fair to see. ‘I have loved thee, and for ever thine own I’ll truly be.’ He took her in his arms; she felt no more alarms. ‘Farewell to you all!’ sang she; ‘a fish cannot drown in the water; now I am a fish, you know—the Arno’s loving daughter. _Per sempre addio_!’”