Part 2

Several lines in the second German version are evidently borrowed from the Ladybird or Maychafer rhyme which has been pronounced a relic of Freya worship. Here the question arises, is not the snail song also derived from some ancient myth? Count Gubernatis, in his valuable work on _Zoological Mythology_ (vol. ii. p. 75), dismisses the matter with the remark that "the snail of superstition is demoniacal." This, however, is no proof that he always bore so suspicious a character, since all the accessories to past beliefs got into bad odour on the establishment of Christianity, unless saved by dedication to the Virgin or other saints. I ventured to suggest, in the _Archivio per lo studio delle tradizioni popolari_ (the Italian Folklore Journal), that the snail who is so constantly urged to come forth from his dark house, might in some way prefigure the dawn. Horns have been from all antiquity associated with rays of light. But to write of "Nature Myths in Nursery Rhymes" is to enter on such dangerous ground that I will pursue the argument no further.

V.

Children of older years have preserved the very important class of songs distinguished as singing-games. Everyone knows the famous _ronde_ of the Pont d'Avignon:

Sur le Pont d'Avignon, Tout le monde y danse, danse, Sur le Pont d'Avignon Tout le monde y danse en rond.

Les beaux messieurs font comme ca, Sur le Pont d'Avignon, Tout le monde y danse, danse, Sur le Pont d'Avignon, Tout le monde y danse en rond.

After the "messieurs" who bow, come the "demoiselles" who curtsey; the workwomen who sew, the carpenters who saw wood, the washerwomen who wash linen, and a host of other folks intent on their different callings. The song is an apt demonstration of what Paul de Saint-Victor called "cet instinct inne de l'imitation qui fait similer a l'enfant les actions viriles"[6]--in which instinct lies the germ of the theatre. The origin of all spectacles was a performance intended to amuse the performers, and it cannot be doubted that the singing-game throws much light on the beginnings of scenic representations.

_Rondes_ frequently deal with love and marriage, and these, from internal evidence, cannot have been composed by or for the young people who now play them. There are in fact some which would be better forgotten by everybody, but the majority are innocent little dramas, of which it may truly be said, _Honi soit qui mal y pense_. It should be noticed that a distinctly satirical vein runs through many of these games, as in the "Gentleman from Spain,"--played in one form or another all over Europe and the United States,--in which the suitor would first give any money to get his bride, and then any money to get rid of her. Or the Swedish _Lek_ (the name given in Sweden to the singing-game), in which the companions of a young girl put her sentiments to the test of telling her that father, mother, sisters, brothers, are dead--all of which she hears with perfect equanimity--but when they add that her betrothed is also dead, she falls back fainting. Then all her kindred are resuscitated without the effect of reviving her, but when she hears that her lover is alive and well, she springs up and gives chase to her tormentors.

To my mind there is no more remarkable specimen of the singing game than _Jenny Jones_--through which prosaic title we can discern the tender _Jeanne ma joie_ that formed the base of it. The Scotch still say _Jenny Jo_, "Jo" being with them a term of endearment (_e.g._, "John Anderson, my Jo!"). The following variant of the game I took down from word of mouth at Bocking in Essex:--

We've come to see Jenny Jones, Jenny Jones, (_repeat_). How is she now?

Jenny is washing, washing, washing, Jenny is washing, you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones. How is she now?

Jenny is folding, folding, folding, You can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones. How is she now?

Jenny is starching, starching, starching, Jenny is starching, you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones. How is she now?

Jenny is ironing, ironing, ironing, Jenny is ironing, you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones. How is she now?

Jenny is ill, ill, ill, Jenny is ill, so you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones. How is she now?

(_Mournfully._) Jenny is dead, dead, dead, Jenny is dead, you can't see her now.

May we come to the funeral? Yes.

May we come in red? Red is for soldiers; you can't come in red.

May we come in blue? Blue is for sailors; you can't come in blue.

May we come in white? White is for weddings; you can't come in white.

May we come in black? Black is for funerals, so you can come in that.

Jenny is then carried and buried (_i.e._, laid on the grass) by two of the girls, while the rest follow as mourners, uttering a low, prolonged wail.

Perhaps the earliest acted tragedy--a tragedy acted before AEschylus lived--was something like this. Anyhow, it may remind us of how early a taste for the tragic is developed, if not in the life of mankind at all events in the life of man. "What is the reason," asks St Augustine, "that men wish to be moved by the sight of tragic and painful things, which, nevertheless, they do not wish to undergo themselves? For the spectators (at a play) desire to feel grieved, and this grief is their joy: whence comes it unless from some strange spiritual malady?"[7]

Dr Pitre describes this Sicilian game: A child lies down, pretending to be dead. His companions stand round and sing a dirge in the most dolorous tones. Now and then, one of them runs up to him and lifts an arm or a leg, afterwards letting it fall, to make sure that he is quite dead. Satisfied on this point, they prepare to bury him, but before doing so, they nearly stifle him with parting kisses. Tired, at last, of his painful position, the would-be dead boy jumps up and gets on the back of the most aggressive of his playmates, who is bound to carry him off the scene.

To play at funerals was probably a very ancient amusement. No doubt some such game as the above is alluded to in the text, "... children sitting in the markets and calling unto their fellows and saying, We have piped unto you and ye have not danced, we have mourned unto you and ye have not lamented."

VI.

Mysteries and Miracle Plays must not be forgotten, though in their origin they were not a plant of strictly popular growth. Some writers consider that they were instituted by ecclesiastics as rivals to the lay or pagan plays which were still in great favour in the first Christian centuries. Others think with Dr Hermann Ulrici,[8] that they grew naturally out of the increasingly pictorial celebration of the early Greek liturgy,--painted scenes developing into _tableaux vivants_, and these into acted and spoken interludes. It is certain that they were started by the clergy, who at first were the sole actors, assuming characters of both sexes. As time wore on, something more lively was desired, and clowns and buffoons were accordingly introduced. They appeared in the Innsbruck Play of the fourteenth century; and again in 1427, in the performances given at Metz, while the serious parts were acted by ecclesiastics, the lighter, or comic parts, were represented by laymen. These performances were held in a theatre constructed for the purpose, but mysteries were often played in the churches themselves, nor is the practice wholly abandoned. A Nativity play is performed in the churches of Upper Gascony on Christmas Eve, of which the subjoined account will, perhaps, be read with interest:--

In the middle of the Midnight Mass, just when the priest has finished reading the gospel, Joseph and Mary enter the nave, the former clad in the garb of a village carpenter with his tools slung across his shoulder, the latter dressed in a robe of spotless white. The people divide so as to let them pass up the church, and they look about for a night's lodging. In one part of the church the stable of Bethlehem is represented behind a framework of greenery; here they take up their position, and presently a cradle is placed beside them which contains the image of a babe. The voice of an angel from on high now proclaims the birth of the Infant Saviour, and calls on the shepherds to draw near to the sound of glad music. The way in which this bit of theatrical "business" is managed, is by a child in a surplice, with wings fastened to his shoulders, being drawn up to the ceiling seated on a chair, which is supported by ropes on a pulley. The shepherds, real shepherds in white, homespun capes, with long crooks decked with ribbons, are placed on a raised dais, which stands for the mountain. They wake up when they hear the angel's song, and one of them exclaims:

Diou dou ceou, quino vero vouts! Un anjou mous parlo, pastous; Biste quieten noste troupet! Mes que dit l'anjou, si vous plait?

(Heavens! with how sweet a voice The angel calls us to rejoice; Quick leave your flocks: but tell me, pray, What doth the heavenly angel say?)

The angel replies in French:

Rise, shepherd, nor delay, 'Tis God who summons thee, Hasten with zeal away Thy Saviour's self to see. The Lord of Hosts hath shown That since this glorious birth, War shall be no more known, But peace shall reign on earth.

The shepherds, however, are not very willing to be disturbed: "Let me sleep! Let me sleep!" says one of them, and another goes so far as to threaten to drive away the angel if he does not let them alone. "Come and render homage to the new-born babe," sings the angel, "and cease to complain of your happy lot." They answer:

A happy lot We never yet possest, A happy lot For us poor shepherd folk existeth not; Then wherefore utter the strange jest That by an infant's birth we shall be blest With happy lot?

The shepherds begin to bestir themselves. One says that he feels overcome with fear at the sound of so much noise and commotion. The angel responds, "Come without fear; do not hesitate, but redouble your speed. It is in this village, in a poor place, near yonder wood, that you may see the Infant Lord." Another of the shepherds, who seems to have only just woke up, inquires:

What do you say? This to believe what soul is able; What do you say? Where do these shepherds speed away? To see their God within a stable: This surely seems an idle fable; What do you say?

"To understand how it is, go and behold with your own eyes," replies the angel; to which the shepherd answers, "Good morrow, angel; pardon me if I have spoken lightly; I will go and see what is going on." Another, still not quite easy in his mind, observes that he cannot make out what the angel says, because he speaks in such a strange tongue. The angel immediately replies in excellent Gascon patois:

Come, shepherds, come From your mountain home, Come, see the Saviour in a stable born, This happy morn. Come, shepherds, come, Let none remain behind, Come see the wretched sinners' friend, The Saviour of mankind.

When they hear the good news, sung to a quaint and inspiriting air in their own language, the shepherds hesitate no longer, but set off for Bethlehem in a body. One of them, it is true, expresses some doubts as to what will become of the flocks in their absence; but a veteran shepherd strikes his crook upon the ground and sternly reproves him for being anxious about the sheep when a heavenly messenger has declared that "God has made Himself the Shepherd of mankind." They leave the dais, and march out of the church, the whole of which is now considered as being the stable. After a while the shepherds knock for admittance, and their voices are heard in the calm crisp midnight air chaunting these words to sweet and solemn strains:

Master of this blest abode, O guardian of the Infant God, Open your honoured gate, that we May at His worship bend the knee.

Joseph fears that the strangers may perchance be enemies, but reassured by an angel, he opens the door, only naively regretting that the lowly chamber "should be so badly lighted." They prostrate themselves before the cradle, and the choir bursts forth with:

Gloria Deo in excelsis, O Domine te laudamus, O Deus Pater rex caelestis, In terra pax hominibus.

The shepherdesses then render their homage, and deposit on the altar steps a banner covered with flowers and greenery, from which hang strings of small birds, apples, nuts, chestnuts, and other fruits. It is their Christmas offering to the cure; the shepherds have already placed a whole sheep before the altar, in a like spirit.

The next scene takes us into Herod's palace, where the magi arrive, and are directed to proceed to Bethlehem. During their adoration of the Infant Saviour, Mass is finished, and the Sacrament is administered; after which the play is brought to a close with the flight into Egypt and the massacre of the Innocents.

This primitive drama gives a better idea of the early mysteries than do the performances at Ober Ammergau, which have been gradually pruned and improved under the eye of a critical public. But it is unusually free from the absurdities and levities which abound in most miracle plays; such as the wrangle between Noah and his wife in the old Chester Mysteries, in which the latter declares "by St John" that the Flood is a false alarm, and that no power on earth shall make her go into the Ark. Noah ends with putting her on board by main force, and is rewarded by a box on the ear.

The best surviving sample of a non-scriptural rustic play is probably _Saint Guillaume of Poitou_, a Breton versified drama in seven acts. The history of the Troubadour Count whose wicked manhood leads to a preternaturally pious old age, corresponds to every requirement of the peasant play-goer. Time and space are set airily at defiance; saints and devils are not only called, but come at the shortest notice; the plot is exciting enough to satisfy the strongest craving for sensation, and the dialogue is vigorous, and, in parts, picturesque. One can well believe that the fiery if narrow patriotism of a Breton audience would be stirred by the scene where the reformed Count William, who has withstood all other blandishments, is almost lured out of his holy seclusion by the Evil One coming to him in the shape of a fellow-townsman who represents his city as hard pressed by overwhelming foes, and in its extremest need, imploring his aid; that the religious fervour of Breton peasants would be moved by the recital of the vision in which a very wicked man appears at the bar of judgment: his sins out-number the hairs of his head, you would call him an irredeemable wretch; yet it does so happen that once upon a time he gave two pilgrims a bed of straw in a pig-stye, and now St Francis throws this straw into the balance, and it bends down the scale!

So in the Song of the Sun, in Saemund's _Edda_, a fierce freebooter, who has despoiled mankind, and who always ate alone, opens his door one evening to a tired wayfarer, and gives him meat and drink. The guest meditates evil; then in his sleep he murders his host, but he is doomed to take on him all the sins of the man he has slain, while the one-time evil-doer's soul is borne by angels into a life of purity, where it shall live for ever with God. This motive is repeatedly introduced into folk-lore, and was made effective use of by Victor Hugo in _Sultan Mourad_, the infamous tyrant who goes to Heaven on the strength of having felt momentary compassion for a pig.

In plays of the _Saint Guillaume_ class, the plain language in which the vices and oppression of the nobles is denounced shows signs of the slow surging up of the democratic spirit whose traces through the middle ages are nowhere to be more fruitfully sought than in popular literature--though they lie less in the rustic drama than in the great mediaeval satires, such as _Reynard the Fox_ and _Marcolfo_, the latter of which is still known to the Italian people under the form of _Bertoldo_, in which it was recast in the sixteenth century, by G. B. Croce, the rhyming blacksmith of Bologna.

VII.

Epopees, _chansons de geste_, romantic ballads, occasional or ceremonial songs, nursery rhymes, singing-games, rustic dramas; to these must be added the great order of purely personal and lyrical songs, of which the unique and exclusive subject is love. Popular love songs have one quality in common: a sincerity which is not perhaps reached in the entire range of lettered amorous poetry. Love is to these singers a thing so serious that however high they fly, they do not outsoar what is to them the atmosphere of truth. "La passion parle la toute pure," as Moliere said of the old song:

Si le roi m'avoit donne Paris, sa grande ville, Et qu'il me fallut quitter L'amour de ma mie: Je dirois au roi Henri Reprenez votre Paris J'aime mieux ma mie, oh gay! J'aime mieux ma mie.

An immense, almost incredible, number of popular songs have been set down during the last twenty years by collectors who, like Tigri in Tuscany, and Pitre in Sicily, have done honour to their birthlands, and an enduring service to literature. It has been seen that Italy, Portugal, and Spain have songs which, though differing in shape, are yet materially alike. Where was the original fount of this lyrical river? Some would look for it in Arabia, and cite the evident poetic fertility of those countries where Arab influence once prevailed. Others regard the existing passion-verse as a descendant of the mediaeval poetry associated with Provence. Others, again, while admitting that there may have been modifications of form, find it hard to believe that there was ever a time, since the type was first established, when the southern peasant was dumb, or when he did not sing in substance very much as he does now.

Whatever theory be ultimately accepted, it is certain that the popular love-poetry of southern nations, such as it has been received direct from peasant lips, is not the least precious gift we owe to the untaught, uncultured poet, who after having been for long ages ignored or despised, is now raised to his rightful place near the throne of his illustrious brother, the perfect lettered poet. Pan sits unrebuked by the side of Apollo.

* * * * *

These introductory remarks are meant to do no more than to show the principal landmarks of folk-poetry. The subject is a wide one, as they best know who have given it the most careful attention. In the following essays, I have dealt with a few of its less familiar aspects. I would, in conclusion, express my gratitude to the indefatigable excavators of popular lore whose large labours have made my small work possible, and to all who have helped, whether by furnishing unedited specimens or by procuring copies of rare books. My cordial thanks are also due to the editors and publishers of the _Cornhill Magazine_, _Fraser's Magazine_, the _National Review_, the _British Quarterly Review_, the _Revue Internationale_, the _Antiquary_, and the _Record_ and _Journal_ of the Folk-lore Society, for leave to reprint such part of this book as had appeared in those publications.

SALO, LAGO DI GARDA, _January 15 1886_.

[Footnote 1: Voltaire.]

[Footnote 2:

Sire cuens, j'ai viele Devant vous, en vostre oste; Si ne m'avez, riens done, Ne mes gages aquite C'est vilanie;

Foi que doi Sainte Marie! Ainc ne vos sievrai je mie, M'aumosniere est mal garnie Et ma malle mal farsie.

Sire cuens, quar comandez De moi vostre volonte. Sire, s'il vous vient a gre Un beau don car me donez Par cortoisie. Talent ai, n'en dotez mie, De r'aler a ma mesnie. Quant vois borse desgarnie, Ma feme ne me rit mie.

Ains me dit: Sire Engele En quel terre avez este, Qui n'avez rien conqueste Aval la ville? Vez com vostre male plie, Ele est bien de vent farsie. Honi soit qui a envie D'estre en vostre compaignie.

Quant je vieng a mon hoste Et ma feme a regarde Derier moi le sac enfle, Et ge qui sui bien pare De robe grise, Sachiez qu'ele a tot jus mise La quenoille, sans faintise. Elle me rit par franchise, Les deux bras au col me lie.

Ma feme va destrousser Ma male, sanz demorer. Mon garcon va abruver Mon cheval et conreer. Ma pucele va tuer Deux chapons por deporter A la sause aillie;

Ma fille m'apporte un pigne. En sa main par cortoisie Lors sui de mon ostel sire, A mult grant joie, sans ire, Plus que nus ne porroit dire. ]

[Footnote 3: Not to speak of Charlemagne, who ordered a collection to be made of German songs.]

[Footnote 4: A fuller description of German harvest customs, with remarks on their presumed meaning, will be found in the Rev. J. Van den Gheyn's "Essais de Mythologie et de Philologie comparee," 1885.]

[Footnote 5: Mr W. R. S. Ralston has kindly communicated to me this Russian version, which he translates: "Snail, snail, put forth thy horns, I will give to thee cakes."]

[Footnote 6: "Les deux Masques," tome i. p. 1.]

[Footnote 7: "Confessions," book iii. chap. 11.]

[Footnote 8: "Shakespeare's Dramatic Art," 1876.]

THE INSPIRATION OF DEATH IN FOLK-POETRY.

The Roumanians call death "the betrothed of the world:" that which awaits. The Neapolitans give it the name of _la vedova_: that which survives. It would be easy to go on multiplying the stock of contrasting epithets. Inevitable yet a surprise, of daily incidence yet a mystery, unvarying yet most various, a common fact yet incapable of becoming common-place, death may be looked at from innumerable points of view; but, look at it how we will, it moves and excites our spiritual consciousness as nothing else can do. The first poet of human things was perhaps one who stood in the presence of death. In the twilight that went before civilization the loves of men were prosaic, and intellectual unrest was remote, but there was already Rachel weeping for her children and would not be comforted because they are not. Death, high priest of the ideal, led man in his infancy through a crisis of awe passing into transcendent exaltation, kindred with the state which De Quincey describes when recalling the feelings wrought in his childish brain by the loss of his sister. It set the child-man asking why? first sign of a dawning intelligence; it told him in familiar language that we lie on the borders of the unknown; it opened before him the infinite spaces of hope and fear; it shattered to pieces the dull round of the food-seeking present, and built up out of the ruins the perception of a past and a future. It was the symbol of a human oneness with the coming and going of day and night, summer and winter, the rising and receding tide. It caused even the rudest of men to speak lower, to tread more softly, revealing to him unawares the angel Reverence. And above all, it wounded the heart of man. M. Renan says with great truth, "Le grand agent de la marche du monde, c'est la douleur." What poetry owes to the bread of sorrow has never been better told than by the Greek folk-singer, who condenses it into one brief sentence: "Songs are the words spoken by those who suffer."