Part 23

[Footnote 2: Laura Gonzenbach was the daughter of the Swiss Consul at Messina, where she was born. At an early age she developed uncommon gifts, and she was hardly twenty when she made her collection of Sicilian stories, almost exclusively gathered from a young servant-girl who did not know how to write or read. It was with great difficulty that a publisher was found who would bring out the book. Fraeulein Gonzenbach married Colonel La Racine, a Piedmontese officer, and died five or six years ago, being still quite young. A relation of hers, from whom I have these particulars, was much surprised to hear that the _Sicilianische Maerchen_ is widely known as one of the best works of its class. It is somewhat singular that the preservation of Italian folk-tales should have been so substantially aided by two ladies not of Italian origin: Fraeulein Gonzenbach and Miss R. H. Busk, author of "The Folk-lore of Rome."]

FOLK-LULLABIES.

... A nurse's song Of lullaby, to bring her babe asleep.

Infancy is a great mystery. We know that we each have gone over that stage in human life, though even this much is not always quite easy to realise. But what else do we know about it? Something by observation, something by intuition; by experience hardly anything at all. We have as much personal acquaintance with a lake-dwelling or stone age infant as with our proper selves at the time when we were passing through the "avatar" of babyhood. The recollections of our earliest years are at most only as the confused remembrance of a morning dream, which at one end fades into the unconsciousness of sleep, whilst at the other it mingles with the realities of awaking. And yet, as a fact, we did not sleep through all the dawn of our life, nor were we unconscious; only we were different from what we now are; the term "thinking animal" did not then fit us so well. We were less reasonable and less material. Babies have a way of looking at you that makes you half suspect that they belong to a separate order of beings. You speculate as to whether they have not invisible wings, which drop off afterwards as do the birth wings of the young ant. There is one thing, however, in which the baby is very human, very manlike. Of all newborn creatures he is the least happy. You may sometimes see a little child crying softly to himself with a look of world woe on his face that is positively appalling. Perhaps human existence, like a new pair of shoes, is very uncomfortable till one gets accustomed to it. Anyhow the child, being for some reason or reasons exceedingly disposed to vex its heart, needs much soothing. In one highly civilised country a good many mothers are in the habit of going to the nearest druggist for the means to tranquillise their offspring, with the result that these latter are not unfrequently rescued from the sea of sorrows in the most final and expeditious way. In less advanced states of society another expedient has been resorted to from time immemorial--to wit, the cradle song.

Babies show an early appreciation of rhythm. They rejoice in measured noise, whether it takes the form of words, music, or the jingle of a bunch of keys. In the way of poetry I am afraid they must be admitted to have a perverse preference for what goes by the name of sing-song. It will be a long time before the infantine public are brought round to Walt Whitman's views on versification. For the rest, they are not very severe critics. The small ancient Roman asked for nothing better than the song of his nurse--

Lalla, lalla, lalla, Aut dormi, aut lacta.

This two-line lullaby constitutes one of the few but sufficing proofs which have come down to us of the existence among the people of old Rome of a sort of folk verse not by any means resembling the Latin classics, but bearing a considerable likeness to the _canti popolari_ of the modern Italian peasant. It may be said parenthetically that the study of dialect tends altogether to the conviction that there are country people now living in Italy to whom, rather than to Cicero, we should go if we want to know what style of speech was in use among the humbler subjects of the Caesars. The lettered language of the cultivated classes changes; the spoken tongue of the uneducated remains the same; or, if it too undergoes a process of change, the rate at which it moves is to the other what the pace of a tortoise is to the speed of an express train. About eight hundred years ago a handful of Lombards went to Sicily, where they still preserve the Lombard idiom. The Ober-Engadiner could hold converse with his remote ancestors who took refuge in the Alps three or four centuries before Christ; the Aragonese colony at Alghero, in Sardinia, yet discourses in Catalan; the Roumanian language still contains terms and expressions which, though dissimilar to both Latin and standard Italian, find their analogues in the dialects of those eastward-facing "Latin plains" whence, in all probability, the people of Roumania sprang. But we must return to our lullabies.

There exists another Latin cradle song, not indeed springing from classical times, but which, were popular tradition to be trusted, would have an origin greatly more illustrious than that of the laconic effusion of the Roman nurse. It is composed in the person of the Virgin Mary, and was, in bygone days, believed to have been actually sung by her. Authorities differ as to its real age, some insisting that the peculiar structure of the verse was unknown before the 12th century. There is, however, good reason to think that the idea of composing lullabies for the Virgin belongs to an early period.

Dormi, fili, dormi! mater Cantat unigenito: Dormi puer, dormi! pater Nato clamat parvulo: Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Lectum stravi tibi soli, Dormi, nate bellule! Stravi lectum foeno molli: Dormi mi animule. Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Dormi, decus et corona! Dormi, nectar lacteum! Dormi, mater dabo dona, Dabo favum melleum. Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Dormi, nate mi mellite! Dormi plene saccharo, Dormi, vita, meae vitae, Casto natus utero. Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Quidquid optes, volo dare; Dormi, parve pupule Dormi, fili! dormi carae, Matris deliciolae! Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Dormi cor, et meus thronus; Dormi matris jubilum; Aurium caelestis sonus, Et suave sibilum! Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Dormi fili! dulce, mater Duke melos concinam; Dormi, nate! suave, pater, Suave carmen accinam. Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Ne quid desit, sternam rosis, Sternam foenum violis, Pavimentum hyacinthis Et praesepe liliis. Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Si vis musicam, pastores Convocabo protinus; Illis nulli sunt priores; Nemo canit castius. Millies tibi laudes canimus Mille, mille, millies.

Everybody who is in Rome at Christmas-tide makes a point of visiting Santa Maria in Ara C[oe]li, the church which stands to the right of the Capitol, where once the temple of Jupiter Feretrius is supposed to have stood. What is at that season to be seen in the Ara C[oe]li is well enough known--to one side a "presepio," or manger, with the ass, the ox, St Joseph, the Virgin, and the Child on her knee; to the other side a throng of little Roman children rehearsing in their infantine voices the story that is pictured opposite.[1] The scene may be taken as typical of the cult of the Infant Saviour, which, under one form or another, has existed distinct and separable from the main stem of Christian worship ever since a Voice in Judaea bade man seek after the Divine in the stable of Bethlehem. It is almost a commonplace to say that Christianity brought fresh and peculiar glory alike to infancy and to motherhood. A new sense came into the words of the oracle--

Thee in all children, the eternal Child ...

And the mother, sublimely though she appears against the horizon of antiquity, yet rose to a higher rank--because the highest--at the founding of the new faith. Especially in art she left the second place that she might take the first. The sentiment of maternal love, as illustrated, as transfigured, in the love of the Virgin for her Divine Child, furnished the great Italian painters with their master motive, whilst in his humble fashion the obscure folk-poet exemplifies the selfsame thought. I am not sure that the rude rhymes of which the following is a rendering do not convey, as well as can be conveyed in articulate speech, the glory and the grief of the Dresden Madonna:

Sleep, oh sleep, dear Baby mine, King Divine; Sleep, my Child, in sleep recline; Lullaby, mine Infant fair, Heaven's King All glittering, Full of grace as lilies rare.

Close thine eyelids, O my treasure, Loved past measure, Of my soul, the Lord, the pleasure; Lullaby, O regal Child, On the hay My joy I lay; Love celestial, meek and mild.

Why dost weep, my Babe? alas! Cold winds that pass Vex, or is 't the little ass? Lullaby, O Paradise; Of my heart Though Saviour art; On thy face I press a kiss.

Wouldst thou learn so speedily, Pain to try, To heave a sigh? Sleep, for thou shalt see the day Of dire scath, Of dreadful death, To bitter scorn and shame a prey.

Rays now round thy brow extend, But in the end A crown of cruel thorns shall bend. Lullaby, O little one, Gentle guest Who for thy rest A manger hast, to lie upon.

Born in winter of the year, Jesu dear, As the lost world's prisoner. Lullaby (for thou art bound Pain to know, And want and woe), Mid the cattle standing round.

Beauty mine, sleep peacefully; Heaven's monarch! see, With my veil I cover thee. Lullaby, my Spouse, my Lord, Fairest Child Pure, undefiled, Thou by all my soul adored.

Lo! the shepherd band draws nigh; Horns they ply Thee their Lord to glorify. Lullaby, my soul's delight, For Israel, Faithless and fell, Thee with cruel death would smite.

Now the milk suck from my breast, Holiest, best, Thy kind eyes thou openest. Lullaby, the while I sing; Holy Jesu Now sleep anew, My mantle is thy sheltering.

Sleep, sleep, thou who dost heaven impart My Lord thou art; Sleep, as I press thee to my heart. Poor the place where thou dost lie, Earth's loveliest! Yet take thy rest; Sleep my Child, and lullaby.

It would be interesting to know if Mrs Browning ever heard any one of the many variants of this lullaby before writing her poem "The Virgin Mary to the Child Jesus." The version given above was communicated to me by a resident at Vallauria, in the heart of the Ligurian Alps. In that district it is sung in the churches on Christmas Eve, when out abroad the mountains sleep soundly in their snows and a stray wolf is not an impossible apparition, nothing reminding you that you are within a day's journey of the citron groves of Mentone.

There are several old English carols which bear a strong resemblance to the Italian sacred lullabies. One, current at least as far back as the time of Henry IV., is preserved among the Sloane MSS.:

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere fode, How xalt thou sufferin be nayled on the rode. So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere smerte, How xalt thou sufferin the scharp spere to Thi herte? So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, I synge all for Thi sake, Many on is the scharpe schour to Thi body is schape. So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, fayre happis the befalle, How xalt thou sufferin to drynke ezyl and galle? So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, I synge al beforn How xalt thou sufferin the scharp garlong of thorn? So blyssid be the tyme!

Lullay! lullay! lytel child, gwy wepy Thou so sore, Thou art bothin God and man, gwat woldyst Thou be more? So blyssid be the tyme!

Here, as in the Piedmontese song, the "shadow of the cross" makes its presence distinctly felt, whereas in the Latin lullaby it is wholly absent. Nor are there any dark or sad forebodings in the fragment:

Dormi Jesu, mater ridet, Quae; tam dulcem somnum videt, Dormi, Jesu blandule. Si non dormis, mater plorat, Inter fila cantans orat: Blande, veni Somnule.

Many Italian Christmas cradle songs are in this lighter strain. In Italy and Spain a _presepio_ or _nacimento_ is arranged in old-fashioned houses on the eve of Christmas, and all kinds of songs are sung or recited before the white image of the Child as it lies in its bower of greenery. "Flower of Nazareth sleep upon my breast, my heart is thy cradle," sing the Tuscans, who curiously call Christmas "the Yule-log Easter." In Sicily a thousand endearing epithets are applied to the Infant Saviour: "figghiu duci," "Gesiuzzi beddu," "Gesiuzzi picchiureddi." The Sicilian poet relates how once, when the Madunazza was mending St Joseph's clothes, the Bambineddu cried in His cradle because no one was attending to Him; so the archangel Raphael came down and rocked Him, and said three sweet little words to Him, "Lullaby, Jesus, Son of Mary!" Another time, when the Child was older and the mother was going to visit St Anne, he wept because He wished to go too. The mother let Him accompany her on condition that He would not break St Anne's bobbins. Yet another time the Virgin went to the fair to buy flax, and the Child said that He too would like to have a fairing. The Virgin buys Him a tambourine, and angels descend to listen to His playing. Such stories are endless; some, no doubt, are invented on the spur of the moment, but the larger portion are scraps of old legendary lore. Not a few of the popular beliefs, relating to the Infant Jesus may be traced to the apocryphal Gospels, which were extensively circulated during the earlier Christian centuries. There is, for instance, a Provencal song containing the legend of an apple-tree that bowed its branches to the Virgin, which is plainly derived from this source. Speaking of Provence, one ought not to forget the famous "Troubadour of Bethlehem," Saboly, who was born in 1640, and who composed more than sixty _noels_. Five pretty lines of his form an epitome of sacred lullabies:

Faudra dire, faudra dire, Quauco cansoun, Au garcoun, A la facoun D'aquelo de _soum-soum_.

George Wither deserves remembrance here for what he calls a "Rocking hymn," written about the year of Saboly's birth. "Nurses," he says, "usually sing their children asleep, and through want of pertinent matter they oft make use of unprofitable, if not worse, songs; this was therefore prepared that it might help acquaint them and their nurse children with the loving care and kindness of their Heavenly Father." Consciously or unconsciously, Wither caught the true spirit of the ancient carols in the verses--charming in spite, or perhaps because of their demure simplicity--which follow his little exordium:

Sweet baby, sleep: what ails my dear; What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy Father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep....

Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine eldest brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. &c., &c.

Count Gubernatis, in his "Usi Natalizj," quotes a popular Spanish lullaby, addressed to any ordinary child, but having reference to the Holy Babe:

The Baby Child of Mary, Now cradle He has none; His father is a carpenter, And he shall make Him one.

The lady good St Anna, The lord St Joachim, They rock the Baby's cradle, That sleep may come to Him.

Then sleep thou too, my baby, My little heart so dear; The Virgin is beside thee, The Son of God is near.

When they are old enough to understand the meaning of words, children are sure to be interested up to a certain point by these saintly fables, but, taken as a whole, the songs of the South give us the impression that the coming of Christmas kindles the imagination of the Southern mother rather than that of the Southern child. On the north side of the Alps it is otherwise; there is scarcely need to say that in the Vaterland, Christmas is before all the children's feast. We, who have borrowed many of the German yule-tide customs, have left out the "Christkind;" and it is well that we have done so. Transplanted to foreign soil, that poetic piece of extra-belief would have become a mockery. As soon try to naturalise Kolyada, the Sclavonic white-robed New-year girl. The Christkind in His mythical attributes is nearer to Kolyada than to the Italian Bambinello. He belongs to the people, not to the Church. He is not swathed in jewelled swaddling clothes; His limbs are free, and He has wings that carry Him wheresoever good children abide. There is about Him all the dreamy charm of lands where twilight is long and shade and shine intermingle softly, and where the earth's wintry winding-sheet is more beautiful than her April bride gown. The most popular of German lullabies is a truly Teutonic mixture of piety, wonder-lore, and homeliness. Wagner has introduced the music to which it is sung into his "Siegfried-Idyl." I have to thank a Heidelberg friend for the text:

Sleep, baby, sleep: Your father tends the sheep; Your mother shakes the branches small, Whence happy dreams in showers fall: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: The sky is full of sheep; The stars the lambs of heaven are, For whom the shepherd moon doth care: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: The Christ Child owns a sheep; He is Himself the Lamb of God; The world to save, to death He trod: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: I'll give you then a sheep With pretty bells, and you shall play And frolic with him all the day: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: And do not bleat like sheep, Or else the shepherd's dog will bite My naughty, little, crying spright: Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep: Begone, and watch the sheep, You naughty little dog! Begone, And do not wake my little one: Sleep, baby, sleep.

In Denmark children are sung to sleep with a cradle hymn which is believed (so I am informed by a youthful correspondent) to be "very old." It has seven stanzas, of which the first runs, "Sleep sweetly, little child; lie quiet and still; as sweetly sleep as the bird in the wood, as the flowers in the meadow. God the Father has said, 'Angels stand on watch where mine, the little ones, are in bed.'" A correspondent at Warsaw (still more youthful) sends me the even-song of Polish children:

The stars shine forth from the blue sky; How great and wondrous is God's might; Shine, stars, through all eternity, His witness in the night.

O Lord, Thy tired children keep: Keep us who know and feel Thy might; Turn Thine eye on us as we sleep, And give us all good-night.

Shine, stars, God's sentinels on high, Proclaimers of His power and might; May all things evil from us fly: O stars, good-night, good-night!

Is this "Dobra Noc" of strictly popular origin? From internal evidence I should say that it is not. It seems, however, to be extremely popular in the ordinary sense of the word. Before me lie two or three settings of it by Polish musicians.

The Italians call lullabies _ninne-nanne_, a term used by Dante when he makes Forese predict the ills which are to overtake the dames of Florence:

E se l'anteveder qui non m' inganna, Prima fien triste che le guance impeli Colui che mo si consola con _nanna_.

Some etymologists have sought to connect "nanna" with _neniae_ or [Greek: nenitos], but its most apparent relationship is with [Greek: nannarismata], the modern Greek name for cradle songs, which is derived from a root signifying the singing of a child to sleep. The _ninne-nanne_ of the various Italian provinces are to be found scattered here and there through volumes of folk poesy, and no attempt has yet been made to collate and compare them. Signor Dal Medico did indeed publish, some ten years ago, a separate collection of Venetian nursery rhymes, but his initiative has not been followed up. The difficulty I had in obtaining the little work just mentioned is characteristic of the way in which Italian printed matter vanishes out of all being; instead of passing into the obscure but secure limbo into which much of English literature enters, it attains nothing short of Nirv[=a]na--a happy state of non-existence. The inquiries of several Italian book-sellers led to no other conclusion than that the book in question was not to be had for love or money; and most likely I should still have been waiting for it were it not for the courtesy of the Baron Giovanni di Sardagna, who, on hearing that it was wanted by a student of folk-lore, borrowed from the author the only copy in his possession and made therefrom a verbatim transcript. The following is one of Signor Dal Medico's lullabies:

Hush! lulla, lullaby! So mother sings; For hearken, 'tis the midnight bell that rings. But, darling, not thy mother's bell is this: St Lucy's priests it calls to prayer, I wis. St Lucy gave thee eyes--a matchless pair-- And gave the Magdalen her golden hair; Thy cheeks their hue from heaven's angels have; Her little loving mouth St Martha gave. Love's mouth, sweet mouth, that Florence hath for home, Now tell me where love springs, and how doth come?... With music and with song doth love arise, And then its end it hath in tears and sighs.

The question and answer as to the beginning and end of love run through all the songs of Italy, and in nearly every case the reply proceeds from Florence. The personality of the answerer changes: sometimes it is a little wild bird; on one occasion it is a preacher. And the idea has been suggested that the last is the original form, and that the Preacher of Florence who preaches against love is none other than Jeronimo Savonarola.