Part 17

Fourteen angels in a band Every night around me stand. Two to my left hand, Two to my right, Who watch me ever By day and night. Two at my head, Two at my feet, To guard my slumber Soft and sweet; Two to wake me At break of day, When night and darkness Pass away; Two to cover me Warm and nice, And two to lead me To Paradise.

Passing on to Italy we find an embarrassing abundance of folk-prayers framed after the self-same model. The repose of the Venetian is under the charge of the Perfect Angel, the Angel of God, St Bartholomew, the Blessed Mother, St Elizabeth, the Four Evangelists, and St John the Baptist. Venetian children are taught to say: "I go to bed, I know not if I shall arise. Thou, Lord, who knowest, keep good watch over me. Before my soul separates from my body, give me help and good comfort. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, so be it. Bless my heart and my soul!" The Venetians also have a "Paternoster pichenin," and a "Paternoster grande," both of which are, in their existing form, little else than nonsense. The native of the Marches goes to his rest accompanied by our Lord, the Madonna, the Four Evangelists, _l'Angelo perfetto_, four greater angels, and three others--one at the foot, one at the head, one in the middle. The Tuscan, like the German, has only angels around him: of these he has seven--one at the head, one at the foot, two at the sides, one to cover him, one to watch him, and one to bear him to Paradise. The Sicilian says: "I lay me down in this bed, with Jesus on my breast. I sleep and he watches. In this bed where I am laid, five saints I find: two at the head, two at the feet, in the middle is St Michael."

Perhaps the best expression of the belief in the divine guardians of sleep is that given to it by an ancient Sardinian poet:--

Su letto meo est de battor cantones, Et battor anghelos si bie ponen; Duos in pes, et duos in cabitta, Nostra Segnora a costazu m'ista. E a me narat: Dormi e reposa, No hapas paura de mala cosa, No hapas paura de mala fine. S' Anghelu Serafine, S' Anghelu Biancu, S' Ispiridu Santu, Sa Vigine Maria, Tote siant in cumpagnia mea. Anghelu de Deu, Custodio meo, Custa nott' illuminame! Guarda e difende a me Ca eo mi incommando a tie.

My bed has four corners and four angels standing by it. Two at the foot and two at the head; our Lady is beside me. And to me she says, "Sleep and repose; have no fear of evil things; have no fear of an evil end." The angel Serafine, the angel Blanche, the Holy Spirit, the Virgin Mary--all are here to keep me company. Angel of God, thou my guardian, illuminate me this night. Watch and defend me, for I commend myself to thee.

A Spanish verse, so near to this that it would be needless to give it a separate translation, was sent by a friend who at that time was in the Royal College of Santa Ysabel at Madrid:

Quatro pirondelitas Tiene mi cama; Quatro angelitos Me la acompana. La madre de dios Esta enmedio, Dicendome: Duerme y reposa, Que no te sucedera Ninguna mala cosa.

Amen.

In harmony with the leading idea of the White Paternoster, the recumbent figures of the Archbishops in Canterbury Cathedral have angels kneeling at each corner of their altar tombs. It is worth remarking, too, how certain English lettered compositions have become truly popular through the fact of their introducing the same idea. A former Dean of Canterbury once asked an old woman, who lived alone without chick or child, whether she said her prayers? "Oh! yes," was the reply, "I say every night of my life,

"Hush, my babe, lie still in slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed!"

The White Paternoster itself, in the form of "Matthew, Mark, Luke, John," was, till lately, a not uncommon evening prayer in the agricultural parts of Kent. At present the orthodox night and morning prayers of the people in Catholic countries are the Lord's Prayer, _Credo_ and _Ave Maria_, but to these, as has been seen, the White Paternoster is often added, and at the date of the Reformation--when the "Hail Mary" had scarcely come into general use--it is probable that it was rarely omitted. Prayers that partake of the nature of charms, have always been popular, and people have ever indulged in odd, little roundabout devices to increase the efficacy of even the most sacred words. Boccaccio, for instance, speaks of "the Paternoster of San Giuliano," which seems to have been a Paternoster said for the repose of the souls of the father and mother of St Julian, in gratitude for which attention, the Saint was bound to give a good night's lodging. It remains to be asked, why the White Paternoster is called white? In the actual state of our knowledge, the reason is not apparent; but possibly the term is to be taken simply in an apologetic sense, as when applied to a stated form of dealing with the supernatural. White charms had a recognised place in popular extra-belief. It was sweet to be able to compel the invisible powers to do what you would, and yet to feel secure from uncomfortable consequences. Of course, in such a case, the thing willed must be of an innocent nature. The Breton who begs vengeance of St Yves, knows tolerably well that what he is doing is very black indeed, even though the saint were ten times a saint. Topsy-turvy as may be his moral perceptions, he would not call this procedure a "white charm." He has, however, white charms of his own, one of which was described with great spirit by Auguste Brizeux, the Breton poet who wove many of the wild superstitions of his country into picturesque verse. Brizeux' poems are not very well known either in France or out of it, but they should be dear to students of folk-lore. The following is a version of "La Poussiere Sainte:"

Sweeping an ancient chapel through the night (A ruin now), built 'neath a rocky height, The aged Coulm's old wife was muttering, As if some secret strange abroad to fling.

"I brave, thee tempest, and will do alone What by my grand-dame in her youth was done, When at her beck (of Leon's land, the pride), The ocean, lion-headed, curbed its tide.

"Sweep, sweep, my broom, until my charm uprears A force more strong than sighs, more strong than tears: Charm loved of heaven, which forces wind and wave, Though fierce and mad, our children's lives to save.

"My angel knows, a Christian true am I; No Pagan, nor in league with sorcery. Hence I dispense to the four winds of God, To quell their rage, dust from the holy sod.

"Sweep on my broom; by virtues such as these Oft through the air I scattered swarms of bees. And you, old Coulm, to-morrow shall be prest, You, and my children three, against my breast."

In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier along Pressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng. And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash, And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash; Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed, Through superstition, speechless, while afraid. Still as the port a sail did safely reach, All shouting hurried forward to the beach: "Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?" Others, "Hast seen my son?" "My brother, you?" "Brave man, the truth, whate'er has happened, say, Am I a widow?" Night in such dismay Dragged 'neath a sky without a moon or star. Thank God! Meanwhile all boats in safety are, And every hearth is blazing--all save one, The Columban's. But that was void and lone. But you, Coulm's wife, still battle with the storm, Fixed on the rocks, your task you still perform,-- You cast, towards east, towards west, and towards the north, And towards the south, your incantations forth.

"Go, holy dust, 'gainst all the winds that fly. No sorceress, but a Christian true am I. By the lamp's light, when I the fire had lit, In God's own house, my hands collected it.

"You from the statues of the saints I swept, And silken flags, still on the pillars kept, And the dark tombs, of those whose sons neglect, But you, with your white winding-sheet protect.

"Go, holy dust! To stem the winds depart! Born beneath Christian feet, thou glorious art: When from the porch, I to the altar sped, I seemed upon some heavenly path to tread.

"On you the deacons and the priests have trod, Pilgrims who live, forefathers 'neath the sod; Wood flowers, sweet grains of incense, saintly bones; By dawn you will restore my spouse and sons."

She ceased her charm; and from the chapel then She saw approach four bare-foot fishermen. The aged dame in tears fell on her knees And cried, "I knew they would escape the seas!" Then cleansing sand and sea-weed o'er them spread, With happy lips she kissed each cherished head.

THE DIFFUSION OF BALLADS.

I.--LORD RONALD IN ITALY.

Several causes have combined to give the professional minstrel a more tenacious hold on life in Italy than in France or Germany or England. One of them is, that Italian culture has always been less dependent on education--or what the English poor call "book-learning"--than the culture of those countries.

To this day you may count upon finding a blind ballad-singer in every Italian city. The connection of blindness with popular songs is a noteworthy thing. It is not, perhaps, a great exaggeration to say that, had there been no blind folks in the world, there would have been few ballads. Who knows, indeed, but that Homer would not have earned his bread by bread-making instead of by enchanting the children and wise men of all after-ages, had he not been "one who followed a guide"? Every one remembers how it was the singing of a "blinde crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style," that moved the heroic heart of Sidney more than the blare of trumpets. Every one may not know that in the East of Europe and in Armenia, "blinde crowders" still wander from village to village, carrying, wheresoever they go, the songs of a former day and the news of the latest hour; acting, after a fashion, as professors of history and "special correspondents," and keeping alive the sentiment of nationality under circumstances in which, except for their agency, it must almost without a doubt have expired.

When the Austrians occupied Trebinje in the Herzegovina, they forbade the playing of the "guzla," the little stringed instrument which accompanies the ballads; but the ballads will not be forgotten. Proscription does not kill a song. What kills it sometimes, if it have a political sense, is the fulfilment of the hopes it expresses; then it may die a natural death. I hunted all over Naples for some one who could sing a song which every Neapolitan, man and boy, hummed through the year when the Redshirts brought freedom: _Camicia rossa, camicia ardente_. It seemed that there was not one who still knew it. Just as I was on the point of giving up the search, a blind man was produced out of a tavern at Posilippo; a poor creature in threadbare clothes, holding a wretched violin. He sang the words with spirit and pathos; he is old, however, and perhaps the knowledge of them will not survive him.

Our present business is not with songs of a national or local interest, but with those which can hardly be said to belong to any country in particular. And, first of all, we have to go back to a certain _Camillo, detto il Bianchino cieco fiorentino_, who sang ballads at Verona in the year 1629, and who had printed for the greater diffusion of his fame a sort of rhymed advertisement containing the first few lines of some twenty songs that belonged to his repertory. Last but one of these samples stands the following:

"Dov' andastu jersera, Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil; Dov' andastu jersera?"

"When I come to look at it," adds Camillo, "this is too long; it ought to have been the first to be sung"--alluding, of course, to the song, not to the sample.

Later in the same century, the ballad mentioned above had the honour of being cited before a more polite audience than that which was probably in the habit of listening to the blind Florentine. On the 24th of September 1656, Canon Lorenzo Panciatichi reminded his fellow-academicians of the Crusca of what he called "a fine observation" that had been made regarding the song:

"Dov' andastu a cena figlioul mio Ricco, savio, e gentile?"

The observation (continued the Canon) turned on the answer the son makes to the mother when she asks him what his sweetheart gave him for supper. "She gave me," says the son, "_un' anguilla arrosto cotta nel pentolin dell' olio_." The idea of a roasted eel cooked in an oil pipkin offended the academical sense of the fitness of things; it had therefore been proposed to say instead that the eel was hashed:

"Madonna Madre, Il cuore sta male, Per un anguilla in guazzetto."

Had we nothing to guide us beyond these fragments, there could be no question but that in this Italian ballad we might safely recognise one of the most spirited pieces in the whole range of popular literature--the song of Lord Ronald, otherwise Rowlande, or Randal, or "Billy, my son:"

"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son? O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?" "I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son? What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?" "I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son? And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?" "O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down."

"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son! O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!" "O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."

This version, which I quote from Mr Allingham's _Ballad Book_ (1864), ends here; so does that given by Sir Walter Scott in the _Border Minstrelsy_. There is, however, another version which goes on:

"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?" "Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed sune For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."

"What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?" "My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."

"What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?" "Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun."

"What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son? What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?" "The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me."

Lord Ronald has already been met with, though somewhat disguised, both in Germany and in Sweden, but his appearance two hundred and fifty years ago at Verona has a peculiar interest attached to it. That England shares most of her songs with the Northern nations is a fact familiar to all; but, unless I am mistaken, this is almost the first time of discovering a purely popular British ballad in an Italian dress.

It so happens that to the fragments quoted by Camillo and the Canon can be added the complete story as sung at the present date in Tuscany, Venetia, and Lombardy. Professor d'Ancona has taken pains to collate the slightly different texts, because few Italian folk-songs now extant can be traced even as far back as the seventeenth century. The learned Professor, whose great antiquarian services are well known, does not seem to be aware that the song has currency out of Italy. The best version is one set down from word of mouth in the district of Como, and of this I subjoin a literal rendering:

"Where were you yester eve? My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Where were you yester eve?" "I with my love abode; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I with my love abode; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What supper gave she you? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What supper gave she you?" "I supped on roasted eel; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I supped on roasted eel; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"And did you eat it all? My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, And did you eat it all?" "Only the half I eat; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Only the half I eat; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Where went the other half? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Where went the other half?" "I gave it to the dog; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: I gave it to the dog; Alas, alas, that I should have to die?"

"What did you with the dog? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What did you with the dog?" "It died upon the way; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: It died upon the way; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Poisoned it must have been! My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Poisoned it must have been!" "Quick for the doctor send; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Quick for the doctor send; Alas, alas, that I should have to die.

"Wherefore the doctor call? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Wherefore the doctor call?" "That he may visit me; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: That he may visit me; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

* * * * *

"Quick for the parson send; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Quick for the parson send; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Wherefore the parson call? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Wherefore the parson call?" "So that I may confess; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: So that I may confess; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

* * * * *

"Send for the notary; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Send for the notary; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"Why call the notary? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, Why call the notary?" "To make my testament; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: To make my testament; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your mother leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your mother leave?" "To her my palace goes; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: To her my palace goes; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your brothers leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your brothers leave?" "To them the coach and team; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: To them the coach and team; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your sisters leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your sisters leave?" "A dower to marry them; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: A dower to marry them; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What to your servants leave? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What to your servants leave?" "The road to go to Mass; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: The road to go to Mass; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What leave you to your tomb? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What leave you to your tomb?" "Masses seven score and ten; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: Masses seven score and ten; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

"What leave you to your love? My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred, What leave you to your love?" "The tree to hang her on; O lady mother, my heart is very sick: The tree to hang her on; Alas, alas, that I should have to die."

At first sight it would seem that the supreme dramatic element of the English song--the circumstance that the mother does not know, but only suspects, with increasing conviction, the presence of foul play--is weakened in the Lombard ballad by the refrain, "Alas, alas, that I should have to die." But a little more reflection will show that this is essentially of the nature of an _aside_. In many instances the office of the burden in old ballads resembles that of the chorus in a Greek play: it is designed to suggest to the audience a clue to the events enacting which is not possessed by the _dramatis personae_--at least not by all of them.

In the northern songs, Lord Ronald is a murdered child: a character in which he likewise figures in the Scotch lay of "The Croodlin Doo." This is the Swedish variant:

"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?" "I have been to B[oe]nne to see my brother; Alas! how I suffer."

"What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?" "Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother. Alas! how I suffer."

"What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?" "I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother. Alas! how I suffer."

"What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?" "Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother. Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?" "Good grain in the grange, my step-mother. Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?" "A big ship to sail in, my step-mother. Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?" "Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother. Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?" "The chains of hell, step-mother. Alas! how I suffer."

"What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?" "The same hell, my nurse. Alas! how I suffer."

A point connected with the diffusion of ballads is the extraordinarily wide adoption of certain conventional forms. One of these is the form of testamentary instructions by means of which the plot of a song is worked up to its climax. It reappears in the "Cruel Brother"--which, I suppose, is altogether to be regarded as of the Roland type:

"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "The milk-white steed that brought me here," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly._

"What would ye give to your mother, dear?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "My wedding shift which I do wear," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly._

"But she must wash it very clean," _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, "For my heart's blood sticks in every seam," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.

"What would ye give to your sister Anne?" _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._ "My gay gold ring and my feathered fan," _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.