[25.] A vetâla is a kind of sprite, not always bad-natured, usually carrying on a kind of weird existence in burial-places. “They can possess themselves of the forms of those who die by the hand of justice, and assume them. By the power of magic men can make them obedient, and use them for all manner of difficult tasks above their own strength and sufficiency.” Brockhaus’ Report of the R. Saxon Scientific Soc. Philologico-historical Class, 1863, p. 181. “The Vetâlas were a late introduction among the gods of popular veneration.” (Lassen, iv. 570.) “They came also to be regarded as incarnations of both Vishnu and Shiva.” (Lassen, iv. 159.)
[26.] Two interesting instances of the way in which traditionary legends become attached to various persons as they float along the current of time, have been brought to my notice while preparing these sheets for the press. I cannot now recall where I picked up the story of “The Balladmaker and the Bootmaker,” which I have given in “Patrañas,” but I am sure it was told of a wandering minstrel, and as occurring on Spanish soil, as I have given it. I have since met it in “The Hundred Novels” of Sacchetti (written little after the time of Boccacio) as an episode in a no less celebrated life than that of Dante, thus: “... Going out and passing by Porta S. Piero (Florence), he (Dante) heard a blacksmith beating on his anvil, and singing ‘Dante’ just as one sings a common ballad; mutilating here, and mixing in verses of his own there; by which means Dante perceived that he sustained great injury. He said nothing, however, but went into the workshop, to where were laid ready many tools for use in the trade. Dante first took up the hammer and flung it into the road; took up the pincers and flung them into the road; took up the scales and flung them out into the road. When he had thus flung many tools into the road, the blacksmith turned round with a brutal air, crying out, ‘Che diavol’ fate voi? Are you mad?’ But Dante said, ‘And thou; what hast thou done?’ ‘I am busied about my craft,’ said the blacksmith; ‘and you are spoiling my gear, throwing it out into the road like that.’ Said Dante, ‘If you don’t want me to spoil your things, don’t you spoil mine.’ Said the smith. ‘What have I spoilt of yours?’ Said Dante, ‘You sing my book, and you say it not as I made it; poem-making is my trade, and you have spoilt it.’ Then the blacksmith was full of fury, but he had nothing to say; so he went out and picked up his tools, and went on with his work, And the next time he felt inclined to sing, he sang Tristano and Lancellotte, and left Dante alone.” “... Another day Dante was walking along, wearing the gorget and the bracciaiuola, according to the custom of the time, when he met a man driving an ass having a load of street sweepings, who, as he walked behind his ass, ever and anon sang Dante’s book, and when he had sung a line or two, gave the donkey a hit, and cried ‘Arrri!’ Dante, coming up with him, gave him a blow on his shoulder with his armlet (‘con la bracciaiuola gli diede una grande batacchiata,’ literally ‘bastonnade:’ bracciaiuola stands for both the armour covering the arm, and for the tolerably formidable wooden instrument, fixed to the arm, with which pallone-players strike the ball), saying, as he did so, ‘That “arrri” was never put in by me.’ As soon as the ass-driver had got out of his way, he turned and made faces at Dante, saying, ‘Take that!’ But Dante, without suffering himself to be led into an altercation with such a man, replied, amid the applause of all, ‘I would not give one of mine for a hundred of thine!’” (2.) It was lately mentioned to me that there is a narrow mountain-pass in the Lechthal, in Tirol, which is sometimes called Mangtritt (or St. Magnus’ step), and sometimes Jusalte (Saltus Julii, the leap of Julius), because one tradition says Julius Cæsar leapt through it on horseback, and another that it opened to let St. Magnus pass through when escaping from a heathen horde.
[27.] Quoted by W. Taylor, in Journ. of As. Soc. vii. p. 391.
[28.] Quoted by Wilford, as above.
[29.] Quoted in Wilford’s “Sacred Isles of the West.”
[30.] Lassen.
[31.] Roth, Extrait du Vikrama-Charitram, p. 279.
[32.] Lassen, ii. p. 1154.
[33.] Lassen, ii. 1122–1129.
[34.] Abbé Huc narrates how enthusiastically the young Mongol toolholos, or bard, sang to him the Invocation of Timour, of which he gives the refrain as follows:—“We have burned the sweet-smelling wood at the feet of the divine Timour. Our foreheads bent to the earth, we have offered to him the green leaf of tea, and the milk of our herds. We are ready: the Mongols are on foot, O Timour!