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Updated: September 30, 2025
Wherefore it appears to me by no means right to pass over in silence one Don Jacopo, a Florentine, who lived long before the said Don Lorenzo, for the reason that, even as he was a very good and very worthy monk, so was he a better writer of large letters than any who lived either before or after him, not only in Tuscany, but in all Europe, as it is clearly proved not only by the twenty very large volumes of choral books that he left in his monastery, which are the most beautiful, as regards the writing, as well as the largest that there are perchance in Italy, but also by an infinity of others which are to be found in Rome, in Venice, and in many other places, and above all in S. Michele and in S. Mattia di Murano, a monastery of his Order of Camaldoli; for which works this good father well deserved, very many years after he had passed to a better life, not only that Don Paolo Orlandini, a very learned monk of the same monastery, should celebrate him with many Latin verses, but that his right hand, wherewith he wrote the said books, should be preserved with much veneration in a shrine, as it still is, together with that of another monk called Don Silvestro, who, according to the standard of those times, illuminated the said books no less excellently than Don Jacopo had written them.
The name Velabrum from an Etruscan root, signifying water, occurring in some other Italian names such as Velletri, Velino still given to this locality, where a church stood in the middle ages called S. Silvestro in Lacu, commemorates the existence of the primeval lake; while the legend of the casting ashore of Romulus and Remus on the slope of the Palatine points to the gradual desiccation of the spot.
You may sleep at my feet if you like: it will keep them warm, to begin with, and you'll be near me, don't you see?" "Thank you, thank you, dear Pilade," cried the enraptured Silvestro. The world is a very odd one, and it is most true that the man who is for taming hearts should pursue, ostensibly, any other calling. Not that Pilade had that in view. He only sought to be comfortable, good lad.
Silvestro returned and solemnly performed the sacrament of baptism, pouring all the water over the kneeling emperor who shivered violently with the cold, so violently that, while he rose, his leprosy fell from him as it had been a garment and his flesh became as the flesh of Samson which in fact it was, for ordinary naked men are so seldom required that by changing his head one marionette can double the parts.
"They have chestnuts," she answers quickly, "let them live on chestnuts." Silvestro starts violently. He draws back a step or two nearer the door. "Let the gracious madama consider, many have not even a patch of chestnuts. There is great misery, madama indeed, there is great misery." Silvestro goes on to say. He must speak now or never.
You would rather not tell me any more quite sure?" "No, I can't indeed. Let's talk of something else. How old are you?" "Seventeen." "I'm not sixteen yet. Is Castracane your real name?" Castracane looked pleased. "I'm glad you asked. No; they call me that among ourselves, because of a little knack I have; but my name is Pilade." "That's a very nice name," said Silvestro.
I am going to take Silvestro over La Venda to see my mother, and confess to our curate. It is good for the soul." "Silvestro looks well this morning," said Andrea, with his mouth full of bread. "What a colour of dawn! What shining eyes! He would make a proper Madonna for a Mystery eh?" "He would," said Castracane laconically; "a most proper Madonna. With a Bambino on his lap eh, Silvestro."
They know that now the marchesa is come she will grind and harry them, and seize her share of grapes, and corn, and olives, to the uttermost farthing. Silvestro, her steward, a timid, pitiful man, can be got over by soft words, and the sight of want and misery. Not so the marchesa.
No more goats to herd in the heat of the day Silvestro would do it; no share of foraging for him; no more milk to carry into the valley; no more fires to make up; nor strays to follow; nor kids to carry to new pastures Silvestro would do it. The luxurious rascal lay out the daylight stretched on his back with his hat over his eyes; he woke only for his meals.
Worse still, he sees other lambs human lambs with Christian souls fade and pine and shrink into a little grave, from failing of mother's milk, dried up for want of proper food. He sees, too, the aged die before God calls them, failing through lack of nourishment a little wine, perhaps, or a mouthful of soup; the young and strong grow old with ceaseless striving. Poor Silvestro! he sees too much.
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