{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36222/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36222","id":"gutenberg_36222","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36222","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folk songs -- History and criticism"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Lesley Halamek, Jonathan Ingram and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n  Will no one tell me what she sings?\n  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow\n  For old, unhappy, far-off things,\n  And battles long ago:\n  Or is it some more humble lay,\n  Familiar matter of to-day?\n  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,\n  That has been, and may be again!\n\n  W. WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n\n\n  ESSAYS IN THE\n  STUDY OF FOLK-SONGS.\n\n\n  BY THE\n  COUNTESS EVELYN MARTINENGO-CESARESCO.\n\n  LONDON:\n  GEORGE REDWAY,\n  YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.\n  MDCCCLXXXVI.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                              PAGE\n\n  INTRODUCTION                                 ix\n\n  THE INSPIRATION OF DEATH IN FOLK-POETRY       1\n\n  NATURE IN FOLK-SONGS                         30\n\n  ARMENIAN FOLK-SONGS                          53\n\n  VENETIAN FOLK-SONGS                          89\n\n  SICILIAN FOLK-SONGS                         122\n\n  GREEK SONGS OF CALABRIA                     152\n\n  FOLK-SONGS OF PROVENCE                      177\n\n  THE WHITE PATERNOSTER                       203\n\n  THE DIFFUSION OF BALLADS                    214\n\n  SONGS FOR THE RITE OF MAY                   249\n\n  THE IDEA OF FATE IN SOUTHERN TRADITIONS     270\n\n  FOLK-LULLABIES                              299\n\n  FOLK-DIRGES                                 354\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\n  Wo man singt da lass dich ruhig nieder,\n  Boese Menschen haben keine Lieder.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nIt is on record that Wilhelm Mannhardt, the eminent writer on\nmythology and folk-lore, was once taken for a gnome by a peasant he\nhad been questioning. His personal appearance may have helped the\nillusion; he was small and irregularly made, and was then only just\nemerging from a sickly childhood spent beside the Baltic in dreaming\nover the creations of popular fancy. Then, too, he wore a little red\ncap, which was doubtless fraught with supernatural suggestions. But\nabove all, the story proves that Mannhardt had solved the difficulty\nof dealing with primitive folk; that instead of being looked upon as\na profane and prying layman, he was regarded as one who was more than\ninitiated into the mysteries--as one who was a mystery himself. And\nfor this reason I recall it here. It exactly indicates the way to\nset about seeking after old lore. We ought to shake off as much as\npossible of our conventional civilization which frightens uneducated\npeasants, and makes them think, at best, that we wish to turn them\ninto ridicule. If we must not hope to pass for spirits of earth or\nair, we can aim at inspiring such a measure of confidence as will\npersuade the natural man to tell us what he still knows of those\nvanishing beings, and to lend us the key to his general treasure-box\nbefore all that is inside be reduced to dust.\n\nThis, which applies directly to the collector at first hand, has also\nits application for the student who would profit by the materials when\ncollected. He should approach popular songs and traditions from some\nother stand-point than that of mere criticism; and divesting himself\nof preconcerted ideas, he should try to live the life and think the\nthoughts of people whose only literature is that which they carry\nin their heads, and in whom Imagination takes the place of acquired\nknowledge.\n\n\nI.\n\nResearch into popular traditions has now reached a stage at which\nthe English Folk-Lore Society have found it desirable to attempt a\nclassification of its different branches, and in future, students\nwill perhaps devote their labours to one or another of these branches\nrather than to the subject as a whole. Certain of the sections thus\nmapped out have plainly more special attractions for a particular\nclass of workers: beliefs and superstitions chiefly concern those who\nstudy comparative mythology; customs are of peculiar importance to the\nsociologist, and so on. But tales and songs, while offering points of\ninterest to scientific specialists, appeal also to a much wider class,\nnamely, to all who care at all for literature. For the Folk-tale is\nthe father of all fiction, and the Folk-song is the mother of all\npoetry.\n\nMankind may be divided into the half which listens and the half which\nreads. For the first category in its former completeness, we must\ngo now to the East; in Europe only the poor, and of them a rapidly\ndecreasing proportion, have the memory to recite, the patience to\nhear, the faith to receive. It was not always or primarily an\naffair of classes: down even to a comparatively late day, the pure\nstory-teller was a popular member of society in provincial France\nand Italy, and perhaps society was as well employed in listening to\nwonder-tales as it is at present. But there is no going back.\nThe epitaph for the old order of things was written by the great\nphilosopher who threw the last shovel of earth on its grave:\n\n    O l'heureux temps que celui de ces fables\n  Des bons demons, des esprits familiers,\n  Des farfadets, aux mortels secourables!\n  On ecoutait tous ces faits admirables\n  Dans son chateau, pres d'un large foyer:\n  Le pere et l'oncle, et la mere et la fille,\n  Et les voisins, et toute la famille,\n  Ouvraient l'oreille a Monsieur l'aumonier,\n  Qui leur fesait des contes de sorcier.\n    On a banni les demons et les fees;\n  Sous la raison les graces etouffees,\n  Livrent nous c[oe]urs a l'insipidite;\n  Le raisonner tristement s'accredite;\n  On court, helas! apres la verite,\n  Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son merite.[1]\n\nFolk-songs differ from folk-tales by the fact of their making a more\nemphatic claim to credibility. Prose is allowed to be more fanciful,\nmore frivolous than poetry. It deals with the brighter side; the hero\nand heroine in the folk-tale marry and live happily ever after; in the\npopular ballad they are but rarely united save in death. To the blithe\nsupernaturalism of elves and fairies, the folk-poet prefers the solemn\nsupernaturalism of ghost-lore.\n\nThe folk-song probably preceded the folk-tale. If we are to judge\neither by early record or by the analogy of backward peoples, it seems\nproved that in infant communities anything that was thought worth\nremembering was sung. It must have been soon ascertained that words\nrhythmically arranged take, as a rule, firmer root than prose. \"As\nI do not know how to read,\" says a modern Greek folk-singer, \"I have\nmade this story into a song so as not to forget it.\"\n\nPopular poetry is the reflection of moments of strong collective or\nindividual emotion. The springs of legend and poetry issue from the\ndeepest wells of national life; the very heart of a people is laid\nbare in its sagas and songs. There have been times when a profound\nfeeling of race or patriotism has sufficed to turn a whole nation into\npoets: this happened at the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, the\nstruggle for the Stuarts in Scotland, for independence in Greece. It\nseems likely that all popular epics were born of some such concordant\nthrill of emotion. The saying of \"a very wise man\" reported by Andrew\nFletcher of Saltoun, to the effect that if one were permitted to make\nall the ballads, he need not care who made the laws, must be taken\nwith this reservation: the ballad-maker only wields his power for as\nlong as he is the true interpreter of the popular will. Laws may be\nimposed on the unwilling, but not songs.\n\nThe Brothers Grimm said that they had not found a single lie in\nfolk-poetry. \"The special value,\" wrote Goethe, \"of what we call\nnational songs and ballads, is that their inspiration comes fresh\nfrom nature: they are never got up, they flow from a sure spring.\" He\nadded, what must continually strike anyone who is brought in contact\nwith a primitive peasantry, \"The unsophisticated man is more the\nmaster of direct, effective expression in few words than he who has\nreceived a regular literary education.\"\n\nBards chaunted the praises of head-men and heroes, and it may be\nguessed that almost as soon and as universally as tribes and races\nfell out, it grew to be the custom for each fighting chief to have\none or more bards in his personal service. Robert Wace describes how\nWilliam the Conqueror was followed by Taillefer, who\n\n  Mounted on steed that was swift of foot,\n  Went forth before the armed train\n  Singing of Roland and Charlemain,\n  Of Olivere, and the brave vassals\n  Who died at the Pass of Roncesvals.\n\nThe northern skalds accompanied the armies to the wars and were\npresent at all the battles. \"Ye shall be here that ye may see with\nyour own eyes what is achieved this day,\" said King Olaf to his skalds\non the eve of the Battle of Stiklastad (1030), \"and have no occasion,\nwhen ye shall afterwards celebrate these actions in song, to depend on\nthe reports of others.\" In the same fight, a skald named Jhormod died\nan honourable death, shot with an arrow while in the act of singing.\nThe early Keltic poets were forbidden to bear arms: a reminiscence of\ntheir sacerdotal status, but they, too, looked on while others fought,\nand encouraged the combatants with their songs. All these bards served\na higher purpose than the commemoration of individual leaders: they\nbecame the historians of their epoch. The profession was one of\nrecognised eminence, and numbered kings among its adepts. Then it\ndeclined with the rise of written chronicles, till the last bard\ndisappeared and only the ballad-singer remained.\n\n\nII.\n\nThis personage, though shorn of bardic dignity, yet contrived to hold\nhis own with considerable success. In Provence and Germany, itinerant\nminstrels who sang for pay brought up the rank and file of the\ntroubadours and minnesingers; in England and Italy and Northern\nFrance they formed a class apart, which, as times went, was neither\nill-esteemed nor ill-paid. When the minstrel found no better audience\nhe mounted a barrel in the nearest tavern, or\n\n  At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.\n\nBut his favourite sphere was the baronial hall; and to understand how\nwelcome he was there made, it is only needful to picture country life\nin days when books were few and newspapers did not exist. He sang\nbefore noble knights and gracious dames, who, to us--could we be\nsuddenly brought into their presence--would seem rough in their\nmanner, their speech, their modes of life; but who were far from being\ndead or insensible to intellectual pleasure when they could get it. He\nsang the choicest songs that had come down to him from an earlier age;\nsongs of the Round Table and of the great Charles; and then, as he\nsat at meat, perhaps below the salt, but with his plate well heaped up\nwith the best that there was, he heard strange Eastern tales from\nthe newly-arrived pilgrim at his right hand, and many a wild story of\nnoble love or hate from the white-haired retainer at his left.\n\nI have always thought that the old ballad-singer's world--the world in\nwhich he moved, and again the ideal world of his songs--is nowhere to\nbe so vividly realised as in the Hofkirche at Innsbruck, among that\ncolossal company who watch the tomb of Kaiser Max; huge men and women\nin richly wrought bronze array, ugly indeed, most of them, but with\ntwo of their number seeming to embody every beautiful quality that was\npossessed or dreamt of through well nigh a millennium: the pensive,\ngraceful form of Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths, and the erect\nfigure whose very attitude suggests all manly worth, all gentle\nvalour, under which is read the quaint device, \"Arthur _von England_.\"\n\nIf not rewarded with sufficient promptitude and liberality, the\nballad-singer was not slow to call attention to the fact. Colin Muset,\na jongleur who practised his trade in Lorraine and Champagne in the\nthirteenth century, has left a charming photograph of contemporary\nmanners in a song which sets forth his wants and deserts.\n\n  Lord Count, I have the viol played[2]\n  Before yourself, within your hall,\n  And you my service never paid\n  Nor gave me any wage at all;\n                  'T was villany:\n\n  By faith I to Saint Mary owe,\n  Upon such terms I serve you not,\n  My alms-bag sinks exceeding low,\n  My trunk ill-furnished is, I wot.\n\n  Lord Count, now let me understand,\n  What 'tis you mean to do for me,\n  If with free heart and open hand\n  Some ample guerdon you decree\n                  Through courtesy;\n  For much I wish, you need not doubt,\n  In my own household to return,\n  And if full purse I am without,\n  Small greeting from my wife I earn.\n\n  \"Sir Engele,\" I hear her say,\n  \"In what poor country have you been,\n  That through the city all the day\n  You nothing have contrived to glean!\n  See how your wallet folds and bends,\n  Well stuffed with wind and nought beside;\n  Accursed is he who e'er intends\n  As your companion to abide.\"\n\n  When reached the house wherein I dwell,\n  And that my wife can clearly spy\n  My bag behind me bulge and swell,\n  And I myself clad handsomely\n                   In a grey gown,\n  Know that she quickly throws away\n  Her distaff, nor of work doth reck,\n  She greets me laughing, kind and gay,\n  And twines both arms around my neck.\n\n  My wife soon seizes on my bag,\n  And empties it without delay;\n  My boy begins to groom my nag,\n  And hastes to give him drink and hay;\n  My maid meanwhile runs off to kill\n  Two capons, dressing them with skill\n                   In garlic sauce;\n\n  My daughter in her hand doth bear,\n  Kind girl, a comb to smooth my hair.\n  Then in my house I am a king,\n  Great joyance and no sorrowing,\n  Happier than you can say or sing.\n\nBallad-singing suffered by the invention of printing, but it was in\nEngland that the professional minstrel met with the cruellest blow of\nall--the statute passed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth which forbade\nhis recitations, and classed him with \"rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy\nbeggars.\"\n\n  \"Beggars they are with one consent,\n  And rogues by Act of Parliament.\"\n\nOn the other hand, it was also in England that the romantic ballad had\nits revival, and was introduced to an entirely new phase of existence.\nThe publication of the _Percy Reliques_ (1765) started the modern\nperiod in which popular ballads were not only to be accepted as\nliterature, but were to exercise the strongest influence on lettered\npoets from Goethe and Scott, down to Dante Rossetti.\n\nNot that popular poetry had ever been without its intelligent\nadmirers, here and there, among men of culture: Montaigne had said\nof it, \"La poesie populere et purement naturelle a des naifvetez et\ngraces par ou elle se compare a la principale beaute de la poesie\nparfaicte selon l'art: comme il se voit es villanelles de Gascouigne\net aus chancons qu'on nous raporte des nations qui n'ont conoissance\nd'acune science, ny mesme d'escripture.\" There were even ardent\ncollectors, like Samuel Pepys, who is said to have acquired copies of\ntwo thousand ballads.[3] Still, till after the appearance of Bishop\nPercy's book (as his own many faults of omission and commission\nattest), the literary class at large did not take folk-songs quite\nseriously. The _Percy Reliques_ was followed by Herder's _Volkslieder_\n(1782), Scott's _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_ (1802), Fauriel's\n_Chansons Populaires de la Grece_ (1824), to mention only three of its\nmore immediate successors. The \"return to Nature\" in poetry became an\nirresistible movement; the world, tired of the classical forms of\nthe eighteenth century, listened as gladly to the fresh voice of\nthe popular muse, as in his father's dreary palace Giacomo Leopardi\nlistened to the voice of the peasant girl over the way, who sang as\nshe plied the shuttle:\n\n            Sonavan le quiete\n  Stanze, e le vie dintorno.\n  Al tuo perpetuo canto,\n  Allor che all opre femminili intenta\n  Sedevi, assai contenta\n  Di quel vago avvenir che in mente avevi.\n  Era il Maggio odoroso: e tu solevi\n  Cosi menare il giorno.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Lingua mortal non dice\n  Quel ch' io sentiva in seno.\n\nThe hunt for ballads led the way to the search for every sort\nof popular song, and with what zeal that search has since been\nprosecuted, the splendid results in the hands of the public now\ntestify.\n\n\nIII.\n\nA brief glance must be taken at what may be called domestic\nfolk-poetry. In a remote past, rural people found delight or\nconsolation in singing the events of their obscure lives, or in\ndeputing other persons of their own station, but especially skilled\nin the art, to sing them for them. Thus there were marriage-songs and\nfuneral-songs, labour-songs and songs for the culminating points of\nthe pastoral or agricultural year. It is beyond my present purpose to\nspeak of the vintage festivals, and of the literary consequences of\nthe cult of Dionysus. I will, instead, pause for a moment to consider\nthe ancient harvest-songs. Among the Greeks, particularly in Phrygia\nand in Sicily, all harvest-songs bore the generic name of Lytierses,\nand how they got it, gives an instructive instance of myth-facture.\nLytierses was the son of King Midas, and a king himself, but also a\nmighty reaper, whose habit it was to indulge in trials of strength\nwith his companions, and with strangers who were passing by. He tied\nthe vanquished up in sheaves and beat them. One day he defied an\nunknown stranger, who proved too strong for him, and by whom he was\nslain. So died Lytierses, the reaper, and the first \"Lytierses,\" or\nharvest-song, was composed to console his father, King Midas, for his\nloss.\n\nNow, if we regard Lytierses as the typical agriculturist, and his\nantagonist as the growth or vegetation genius, the fable seems to read\nthus: Between man and Nature there is a continual struggle; man is\noften victorious, but, if too presumptuous, a time comes when he must\nyield. In harvest customs continued to this day, a struggle with or\nfor the last sheaf forms a common feature. The reapers of Western\nFrance tie the sheaf, adorned with flowers, to a post driven strongly\ninto the ground, then they fetch the farmer and his wife and all the\nfarm folk to help in dragging it loose, and when the fastenings break,\nit is borne off in triumph. So popular is this _Fete de la Gerbe_,\nthat, during the Chouan war, the leaders had to allow their peasant\nsoldiers to return to their villages to attend it, or they would have\ndeserted in a body. It may not be irrelevant to add that in Brittany\nthe great wrestling matches take place at the _fete_ of the \"new\nthreshing floor,\" when all the neighbours are invited to unite in\npreparing it for the corn. In North Germany, where the peasants still\nbelieve that the last sheaf contains the growth-genius, they set it in\nhonour on the festive board, and serve it double portions of cake\nand ale.[4] Thus appeased, it becomes a friend to the cultivator. The\nharvest \"man\" or \"tree\" which used to be made by English reapers\nat the end of the harvest, and presented to master and mistress,\nobviously belonged to the same family.\n\nWe have one or two of the ancient Lytierses in what is most likely\nvery nearly their original and popular form. One, composed of\ndistiches telling the story of Midas' son, is preserved in a tragedy\nby Sosibius, the Syracusian poet. The following, more general in\nsubject, I take from the tenth Idyl of Theocritus:--\n\n  Come now hearken awhile to the songs of the god Lytierses.\n\n  Demeter, granter of fruits, many sheaves vouchsafe to the cornfield,\n  Aye to be skilfully tilled, and reaped, and the harvest abundant.\n\n  Fasten the heaps, ye binders of sheaves, lest any one passing,\n  Call out, \"worthless clowns, you earn no part of your wages.\"\n\n  Let every sheaf that the sickle has cut be turned to the north wind\n  Or to the west exposed, for so will the corn grow fatter.\n\n  Ye who of wheat are threshers, beware how ye slumber at mid-day,\n  Then is the chaff from the stalk of the wheat, most easily parted.\n\n  Reapers, to labour begin, as soon as the lark upriseth,\n  And when he sleeps, leave off, yet rest when the sun overpowers.\n\n  Blest, O youths, is the life of a frog, for he never is anxious\n  Who is to pour him his drink, for he always has plenty.\n\n  Better at once, O miserly steward, to boil our lentils;\n  Mind you don't cut your fingers in trying to chop them to atoms.\n\n  These are the songs for the toilers to sing in the heat of the harvest.\n\nMost modern harvest songs manage, like that of Theocritus, to convey\nsome hint of thirst or hunger. \"Be merry, O comrades!\" sing the\ngirl reapers of Casteignano dei Greci, a Greek settlement in Terra\nd'Otranto, \"Be merry, and go not on your way so downcast; I saw things\nyou cannot see; I saw the housewife kneading dough, or preparing\nmacaroni; and she does it for us to eat, so that we may work like\nlions at the harvest, and rejoice the heart of the husbandman.\" This\nmay be a statement of fact or a suggestion of what ought to be a fact.\nOther songs, sung exclusively at the harvest, bear no outward sign of\nconnection with it; and the reason of their use on that occasion is\nhopelessly lost.\n\n\nIV.\n\nI pass on to the old curiosity shop of popular traditions--the\nnursery. Children, with their innate conservatism, have stored a\nvast assemblage of odds and ends which fascinate by their very\nincompleteness. Religion, mythology, history, physical science,\nor what stood for it; the East, the North--those great banks of\nideas--have been impartially drawn on by the infant folk-lorists\nat their nurses' knees. Children in the four quarters of the globe,\nrepeat the same magic formulae; words which to every grown person seem\ndevoid of sense, have a universality denied to any articles of faith.\nWhat, for example, is the meaning of the play with the snail? Why is\nhe so persistently asked to put his horns out? Pages might be filled\nwith the variants of the well-known invocation which has currency from\nRome to Pekin.\n\nEnglish:\n\nI.\n\n  Snail, snail, put out your horn,\n  Or I'll kill your father and mother the morn.\n\n  2.\n\n  Snail, snail, come out of your hole,\n  Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal.\n\n  3.\n\n  Snail, snail, put out your horn,\n  Tell me what's the day t'morn:\n  To-day's the morn to shear the corn,\n  Blaw bil buck thorn.\n\n  4.\n\n  Snail, snail, shoot out your horn,\n  Father and mother are dead;\n  Brother and sister are in the back-yard\n  Begging for barley bread.\n\nScotch:\n\n  Snail, snail, shoot out your horn,\n  And tell us it will be a bonnie day, the morn.\n\nGerman:\n\n  1.\n\n  Schneckhus, Peckhues,\n  Staek du din ver Horner rut,\n  Suest schmut ick di in'n Graven,\n  Da freten di de Raven.\n\n  2.\n\n  Taekeltuet,\n  Kruep uet dyn hues,\n  Dyn hues dat brennt,\n  Dyn Kinder de flennt:\n  Dyn Fru de ligt in Waeken:\n  Kann 'k dy nich mael spraeken?\n  Taekeltuet, u. s. w.\n\n  3.\n\n  Snaek, snaek, komm herduet,\n  Sunst tobraek ik dy dyn Hues.\n\n  4.\n\n  Slingemues,\n  Kruep uet dyn Hues,\n  Stick all dyn veer Hoeern uet,\n  Wullt du 's neck uetstaeken,\n  Wik ik dyn Hues tobraeken.\n  Slingemues, u. s. w.\n\n  5.\n  Kuckuch, kuckuck Gerderut,\n  Staek dine ver Horns herut.\n\nFrench:\n\n      Colimacon borgne!\n      Montre-moi tes cornes;\n  Je te dirai ou ta mere est morte,\n  Elle est morte a Paris, a Rouen,\n      Ou l'on sonne les cloches.\n          Bi, bim, bom,\n          Bi, bim, bom,\n          Bi, bim, bom.\n\nTuscan:\n\n  Chiocciola, chiocciola, vien da me,\n  Ti daro i' pan d' i' re;\n  E dell'ova affrittellate\n  Corni secchi e brucherate.\n\nRoumanian:\n\n  Culbecu, culbecu,\n  Scote corne boeresci\n  Si te du la Dunare\n  Si be apa tulbure.\n\nRussian:\n\n  Ulitka, ulitka,\n  Vypusti roga,\n  Ya tebe dam piroga.[5]\n\nChinese:\n\n  Snail, snail, come here to be fed,\n  Put out your horns and lift up your head;\n  Father and mother will give you to eat,\n  Good boiled mutton shall be your meat.\n\nSeveral lines in the second German version are evidently borrowed from\nthe Ladybird or Maychafer rhyme which has been pronounced a relic of\nFreya worship. Here the question arises, is not the snail song also\nderived from some ancient myth? Count Gubernatis, in his valuable work\non _Zoological Mythology_ (vol. ii. p. 75), dismisses the matter\nwith the remark that \"the snail of superstition is demoniacal.\" This,\nhowever, is no proof that he always bore so suspicious a character,\nsince all the accessories to past beliefs got into bad odour on the\nestablishment of Christianity, unless saved by dedication to the\nVirgin or other saints. I ventured to suggest, in the _Archivio per lo\nstudio delle tradizioni popolari_ (the Italian Folklore Journal),\nthat the snail who is so constantly urged to come forth from his dark\nhouse, might in some way prefigure the dawn. Horns have been from all\nantiquity associated with rays of light. But to write of \"Nature Myths\nin Nursery Rhymes\" is to enter on such dangerous ground that I will\npursue the argument no further.\n\n\nV.\n\nChildren of older years have preserved the very important class\nof songs distinguished as singing-games. Everyone knows the famous\n_ronde_ of the Pont d'Avignon:\n\n    Sur le Pont d'Avignon,\n  Tout le monde y danse, danse,\n    Sur le Pont d'Avignon\n  Tout le monde y danse en rond.\n\n  Les beaux messieurs font comme ca,\n    Sur le Pont d'Avignon,\n  Tout le monde y danse, danse,\n    Sur le Pont d'Avignon,\n  Tout le monde y danse en rond.\n\nAfter the \"messieurs\" who bow, come the \"demoiselles\" who curtsey; the\nworkwomen who sew, the carpenters who saw wood, the washerwomen\nwho wash linen, and a host of other folks intent on their different\ncallings. The song is an apt demonstration of what Paul de\nSaint-Victor called \"cet instinct inne de l'imitation qui fait similer\na l'enfant les actions viriles\"[6]--in which instinct lies the germ of\nthe theatre. The origin of all spectacles was a performance\nintended to amuse the performers, and it cannot be doubted that\nthe singing-game throws much light on the beginnings of scenic\nrepresentations.\n\n_Rondes_ frequently deal with love and marriage, and these, from\ninternal evidence, cannot have been composed by or for the young\npeople who now play them. There are in fact some which would be better\nforgotten by everybody, but the majority are innocent little dramas,\nof which it may truly be said, _Honi soit qui mal y pense_. It should\nbe noticed that a distinctly satirical vein runs through many of\nthese games, as in the \"Gentleman from Spain,\"--played in one form or\nanother all over Europe and the United States,--in which the suitor\nwould first give any money to get his bride, and then any money to\nget rid of her. Or the Swedish _Lek_ (the name given in Sweden to\nthe singing-game), in which the companions of a young girl put her\nsentiments to the test of telling her that father, mother,\nsisters, brothers, are dead--all of which she hears with perfect\nequanimity--but when they add that her betrothed is also dead, she\nfalls back fainting. Then all her kindred are resuscitated without the\neffect of reviving her, but when she hears that her lover is alive and\nwell, she springs up and gives chase to her tormentors.\n\nTo my mind there is no more remarkable specimen of the singing game\nthan _Jenny Jones_--through which prosaic title we can discern the\ntender _Jeanne ma joie_ that formed the base of it. The Scotch still\nsay _Jenny Jo_, \"Jo\" being with them a term of endearment (_e.g._,\n\"John Anderson, my Jo!\"). The following variant of the game I took\ndown from word of mouth at Bocking in Essex:--\n\n  We've come to see Jenny Jones, Jenny Jones, (_repeat_).\n  How is she now?\n\n  Jenny is washing, washing, washing,\n  Jenny is washing, you can't see her now.\n\n  We've come to see Jenny Jones.\n  How is she now?\n\n  Jenny is folding, folding, folding,\n  You can't see her now.\n\n  We've come to see Jenny Jones.\n  How is she now?\n\n  Jenny is starching, starching, starching,\n  Jenny is starching, you can't see her now.\n\n  We've come to see Jenny Jones.\n  How is she now?\n\n  Jenny is ironing, ironing, ironing,\n  Jenny is ironing, you can't see her now.\n\n  We've come to see Jenny Jones.\n  How is she now?\n\n  Jenny is ill, ill, ill,\n  Jenny is ill, so you can't see her now.\n\n  We've come to see Jenny Jones.\n  How is she now?\n\n    (_Mournfully._)\n  Jenny is dead, dead, dead,\n  Jenny is dead, you can't see her now.\n\n  May we come to the funeral?\n  Yes.\n\n  May we come in red?\n  Red is for soldiers; you can't come in red.\n\n  May we come in blue?\n  Blue is for sailors; you can't come in blue.\n\n  May we come in white?\n  White is for weddings; you can't come in white.\n\n  May we come in black?\n  Black is for funerals, so you can come in that.\n\nJenny is then carried and buried (_i.e._, laid on the grass) by two\nof the girls, while the rest follow as mourners, uttering a low,\nprolonged wail.\n\nPerhaps the earliest acted tragedy--a tragedy acted before AEschylus\nlived--was something like this. Anyhow, it may remind us of how early\na taste for the tragic is developed, if not in the life of mankind\nat all events in the life of man. \"What is the reason,\" asks St\nAugustine, \"that men wish to be moved by the sight of tragic and\npainful things, which, nevertheless, they do not wish to undergo\nthemselves? For the spectators (at a play) desire to feel grieved,\nand this grief is their joy: whence comes it unless from some strange\nspiritual malady?\"[7]\n\nDr Pitre describes this Sicilian game: A child lies down, pretending\nto be dead. His companions stand round and sing a dirge in the most\ndolorous tones. Now and then, one of them runs up to him and lifts\nan arm or a leg, afterwards letting it fall, to make sure that he is\nquite dead. Satisfied on this point, they prepare to bury him, but\nbefore doing so, they nearly stifle him with parting kisses. Tired, at\nlast, of his painful position, the would-be dead boy jumps up and gets\non the back of the most aggressive of his playmates, who is bound to\ncarry him off the scene.\n\nTo play at funerals was probably a very ancient amusement. No doubt\nsome such game as the above is alluded to in the text, \"... children\nsitting in the markets and calling unto their fellows and saying, We\nhave piped unto you and ye have not danced, we have mourned unto you\nand ye have not lamented.\"\n\n\nVI.\n\nMysteries and Miracle Plays must not be forgotten, though in their\norigin they were not a plant of strictly popular growth. Some writers\nconsider that they were instituted by ecclesiastics as rivals to\nthe lay or pagan plays which were still in great favour in the first\nChristian centuries. Others think with Dr Hermann Ulrici,[8] that they\ngrew naturally out of the increasingly pictorial celebration of\nthe early Greek liturgy,--painted scenes developing into _tableaux\nvivants_, and these into acted and spoken interludes. It is certain\nthat they were started by the clergy, who at first were the sole\nactors, assuming characters of both sexes. As time wore on, something\nmore lively was desired, and clowns and buffoons were accordingly\nintroduced. They appeared in the Innsbruck Play of the fourteenth\ncentury; and again in 1427, in the performances given at Metz, while\nthe serious parts were acted by ecclesiastics, the lighter, or comic\nparts, were represented by laymen. These performances were held in a\ntheatre constructed for the purpose, but mysteries were often played\nin the churches themselves, nor is the practice wholly abandoned.\nA Nativity play is performed in the churches of Upper Gascony on\nChristmas Eve, of which the subjoined account will, perhaps, be read\nwith interest:--\n\n    In the middle of the Midnight Mass, just when the priest has\n    finished reading the gospel, Joseph and Mary enter the nave,\n    the former clad in the garb of a village carpenter with his\n    tools slung across his shoulder, the latter dressed in a robe\n    of spotless white. The people divide so as to let them pass up\n    the church, and they look about for a night's lodging. In one\n    part of the church the stable of Bethlehem is represented\n    behind a framework of greenery; here they take up their\n    position, and presently a cradle is placed beside them which\n    contains the image of a babe. The voice of an angel from on\n    high now proclaims the birth of the Infant Saviour, and calls\n    on the shepherds to draw near to the sound of glad music. The\n    way in which this bit of theatrical \"business\" is managed, is\n    by a child in a surplice, with wings fastened to his\n    shoulders, being drawn up to the ceiling seated on a chair,\n    which is supported by ropes on a pulley. The shepherds, real\n    shepherds in white, homespun capes, with long crooks decked\n    with ribbons, are placed on a raised dais, which stands for\n    the mountain. They wake up when they hear the angel's song,\n    and one of them exclaims:\n\n      Diou dou ceou, quino vero vouts!\n      Un anjou mous parlo, pastous;\n      Biste quieten noste troupet!\n      Mes que dit l'anjou, si vous plait?\n\n      (Heavens! with how sweet a voice\n      The angel calls us to rejoice;\n      Quick leave your flocks: but tell me, pray,\n      What doth the heavenly angel say?)\n\n    The angel replies in French:\n\n      Rise, shepherd, nor delay,\n        'Tis God who summons thee,\n      Hasten with zeal away\n        Thy Saviour's self to see.\n      The Lord of Hosts hath shown\n        That since this glorious birth,\n      War shall be no more known,\n        But peace shall reign on earth.\n\n    The shepherds, however, are not very willing to be disturbed:\n    \"Let me sleep! Let me sleep!\" says one of them, and another\n    goes so far as to threaten to drive away the angel if he does\n    not let them alone. \"Come and render homage to the new-born\n    babe,\" sings the angel, \"and cease to complain of your happy\n    lot.\" They answer:\n\n        A happy lot\n      We never yet possest,\n        A happy lot\n      For us poor shepherd folk existeth not;\n      Then wherefore utter the strange jest\n      That by an infant's birth we shall be blest\n        With happy lot?\n\n    The shepherds begin to bestir themselves. One says that he\n    feels overcome with fear at the sound of so much noise and\n    commotion. The angel responds, \"Come without fear; do not\n    hesitate, but redouble your speed. It is in this village, in a\n    poor place, near yonder wood, that you may see the Infant\n    Lord.\" Another of the shepherds, who seems to have only just\n    woke up, inquires:\n\n        What do you say?\n      This to believe what soul is able;\n        What do you say?\n      Where do these shepherds speed away?\n      To see their God within a stable:\n      This surely seems an idle fable;\n        What do you say?\n\n    \"To understand how it is, go and behold with your own eyes,\"\n    replies the angel; to which the shepherd answers, \"Good\n    morrow, angel; pardon me if I have spoken lightly; I will go\n    and see what is going on.\" Another, still not quite easy in\n    his mind, observes that he cannot make out what the angel\n    says, because he speaks in such a strange tongue. The angel\n    immediately replies in excellent Gascon patois:\n\n        Come, shepherds, come\n      From your mountain home,\n      Come, see the Saviour in a stable born,\n        This happy morn.\n        Come, shepherds, come,\n      Let none remain behind,\n      Come see the wretched sinners' friend,\n        The Saviour of mankind.\n\n    When they hear the good news, sung to a quaint and inspiriting\n    air in their own language, the shepherds hesitate no longer,\n    but set off for Bethlehem in a body. One of them, it is true,\n    expresses some doubts as to what will become of the flocks in\n    their absence; but a veteran shepherd strikes his crook upon\n    the ground and sternly reproves him for being anxious about\n    the sheep when a heavenly messenger has declared that \"God has\n    made Himself the Shepherd of mankind.\" They leave the dais,\n    and march out of the church, the whole of which is now\n    considered as being the stable. After a while the shepherds\n    knock for admittance, and their voices are heard in the calm\n    crisp midnight air chaunting these words to sweet and solemn\n    strains:\n\n      Master of this blest abode,\n      O guardian of the Infant God,\n      Open your honoured gate, that we\n      May at His worship bend the knee.\n\n    Joseph fears that the strangers may perchance be enemies, but\n    reassured by an angel, he opens the door, only naively\n    regretting that the lowly chamber \"should be so badly\n    lighted.\" They prostrate themselves before the cradle, and the\n    choir bursts forth with:\n\n      Gloria Deo in excelsis,\n      O Domine te laudamus,\n      O Deus Pater rex caelestis,\n      In terra pax hominibus.\n\n    The shepherdesses then render their homage, and deposit on the\n    altar steps a banner covered with flowers and greenery, from\n    which hang strings of small birds, apples, nuts, chestnuts,\n    and other fruits. It is their Christmas offering to the cure;\n    the shepherds have already placed a whole sheep before the\n    altar, in a like spirit.\n\n    The next scene takes us into Herod's palace, where the magi\n    arrive, and are directed to proceed to Bethlehem. During their\n    adoration of the Infant Saviour, Mass is finished, and the\n    Sacrament is administered; after which the play is brought to\n    a close with the flight into Egypt and the massacre of the\n    Innocents.\n\nThis primitive drama gives a better idea of the early mysteries than\ndo the performances at Ober Ammergau, which have been gradually pruned\nand improved under the eye of a critical public. But it is unusually\nfree from the absurdities and levities which abound in most miracle\nplays; such as the wrangle between Noah and his wife in the old\nChester Mysteries, in which the latter declares \"by St John\" that the\nFlood is a false alarm, and that no power on earth shall make her go\ninto the Ark. Noah ends with putting her on board by main force, and\nis rewarded by a box on the ear.\n\nThe best surviving sample of a non-scriptural rustic play is probably\n_Saint Guillaume of Poitou_, a Breton versified drama in seven acts.\nThe history of the Troubadour Count whose wicked manhood leads to a\npreternaturally pious old age, corresponds to every requirement of the\npeasant play-goer. Time and space are set airily at defiance; saints\nand devils are not only called, but come at the shortest notice;\nthe plot is exciting enough to satisfy the strongest craving for\nsensation, and the dialogue is vigorous, and, in parts, picturesque.\nOne can well believe that the fiery if narrow patriotism of a Breton\naudience would be stirred by the scene where the reformed Count\nWilliam, who has withstood all other blandishments, is almost lured\nout of his holy seclusion by the Evil One coming to him in the shape\nof a fellow-townsman who represents his city as hard pressed by\noverwhelming foes, and in its extremest need, imploring his aid; that\nthe religious fervour of Breton peasants would be moved by the\nrecital of the vision in which a very wicked man appears at the bar\nof judgment: his sins out-number the hairs of his head, you would call\nhim an irredeemable wretch; yet it does so happen that once upon a\ntime he gave two pilgrims a bed of straw in a pig-stye, and now St\nFrancis throws this straw into the balance, and it bends down the\nscale!\n\nSo in the Song of the Sun, in Saemund's _Edda_, a fierce freebooter,\nwho has despoiled mankind, and who always ate alone, opens his door\none evening to a tired wayfarer, and gives him meat and drink. The\nguest meditates evil; then in his sleep he murders his host, but he is\ndoomed to take on him all the sins of the man he has slain, while the\none-time evil-doer's soul is borne by angels into a life of purity,\nwhere it shall live for ever with God. This motive is repeatedly\nintroduced into folk-lore, and was made effective use of by Victor\nHugo in _Sultan Mourad_, the infamous tyrant who goes to Heaven on the\nstrength of having felt momentary compassion for a pig.\n\nIn plays of the _Saint Guillaume_ class, the plain language in which\nthe vices and oppression of the nobles is denounced shows signs of\nthe slow surging up of the democratic spirit whose traces through the\nmiddle ages are nowhere to be more fruitfully sought than in popular\nliterature--though they lie less in the rustic drama than in the great\nmediaeval satires, such as _Reynard the Fox_ and _Marcolfo_, the\nlatter of which is still known to the Italian people under the form of\n_Bertoldo_, in which it was recast in the sixteenth century, by G. B.\nCroce, the rhyming blacksmith of Bologna.\n\n\nVII.\n\nEpopees, _chansons de geste_, romantic ballads, occasional or\nceremonial songs, nursery rhymes, singing-games, rustic dramas; to\nthese must be added the great order of purely personal and lyrical\nsongs, of which the unique and exclusive subject is love. Popular love\nsongs have one quality in common: a sincerity which is not perhaps\nreached in the entire range of lettered amorous poetry. Love is to\nthese singers a thing so serious that however high they fly, they do\nnot outsoar what is to them the atmosphere of truth. \"La passion parle\nla toute pure,\" as Moliere said of the old song:\n\n  Si le roi m'avoit donne\n    Paris, sa grande ville,\n  Et qu'il me fallut quitter\n    L'amour de ma mie:\n  Je dirois au roi Henri\n  Reprenez votre Paris\n  J'aime mieux ma mie, oh gay!\n    J'aime mieux ma mie.\n\nAn immense, almost incredible, number of popular songs have been set\ndown during the last twenty years by collectors who, like Tigri in\nTuscany, and Pitre in Sicily, have done honour to their birthlands,\nand an enduring service to literature. It has been seen that Italy,\nPortugal, and Spain have songs which, though differing in shape, are\nyet materially alike. Where was the original fount of this lyrical\nriver? Some would look for it in Arabia, and cite the evident poetic\nfertility of those countries where Arab influence once prevailed.\nOthers regard the existing passion-verse as a descendant of the\nmediaeval poetry associated with Provence. Others, again, while\nadmitting that there may have been modifications of form, find it\nhard to believe that there was ever a time, since the type was first\nestablished, when the southern peasant was dumb, or when he did not\nsing in substance very much as he does now.\n\nWhatever theory be ultimately accepted, it is certain that the popular\nlove-poetry of southern nations, such as it has been received direct\nfrom peasant lips, is not the least precious gift we owe to the\nuntaught, uncultured poet, who after having been for long ages ignored\nor despised, is now raised to his rightful place near the throne of\nhis illustrious brother, the perfect lettered poet. Pan sits unrebuked\nby the side of Apollo.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThese introductory remarks are meant to do no more than to show the\nprincipal landmarks of folk-poetry. The subject is a wide one, as\nthey best know who have given it the most careful attention. In\nthe following essays, I have dealt with a few of its less familiar\naspects. I would, in conclusion, express my gratitude to the\nindefatigable excavators of popular lore whose large labours have\nmade my small work possible, and to all who have helped, whether by\nfurnishing unedited specimens or by procuring copies of rare books.\nMy cordial thanks are also due to the editors and publishers of the\n_Cornhill Magazine_, _Fraser's Magazine_, the _National Review_,\nthe _British Quarterly Review_, the _Revue Internationale_, the\n_Antiquary_, and the _Record_ and _Journal_ of the Folk-lore Society,\nfor leave to reprint such part of this book as had appeared in those\npublications.\n\n  SALO, LAGO DI GARDA,\n  _January 15 1886_.\n\n\n\n\n    [Footnote 1: Voltaire.]\n\n    [Footnote 2:\n\n      Sire cuens, j'ai viele\n      Devant vous, en vostre oste;\n      Si ne m'avez, riens done,\n      Ne mes gages aquite\n                C'est vilanie;\n\n      Foi que doi Sainte Marie!\n      Ainc ne vos sievrai je mie,\n      M'aumosniere est mal garnie\n      Et ma malle mal farsie.\n\n      Sire cuens, quar comandez\n      De moi vostre volonte.\n      Sire, s'il vous vient a gre\n      Un beau don car me donez\n                 Par cortoisie.\n      Talent ai, n'en dotez mie,\n      De r'aler a ma mesnie.\n      Quant vois borse desgarnie,\n      Ma feme ne me rit mie.\n\n      Ains me dit: Sire Engele\n      En quel terre avez este,\n      Qui n'avez rien conqueste\n                    Aval la ville?\n      Vez com vostre male plie,\n      Ele est bien de vent farsie.\n      Honi soit qui a envie\n      D'estre en vostre compaignie.\n\n      Quant je vieng a mon hoste\n      Et ma feme a regarde\n      Derier moi le sac enfle,\n      Et ge qui sui bien pare\n                    De robe grise,\n      Sachiez qu'ele a tot jus mise\n      La quenoille, sans faintise.\n      Elle me rit par franchise,\n      Les deux bras au col me lie.\n\n      Ma feme va destrousser\n      Ma male, sanz demorer.\n      Mon garcon va abruver\n      Mon cheval et conreer.\n      Ma pucele va tuer\n      Deux chapons por deporter\n                  A la sause aillie;\n\n      Ma fille m'apporte un pigne.\n      En sa main par cortoisie\n      Lors sui de mon ostel sire,\n      A mult grant joie, sans ire,\n      Plus que nus ne porroit dire.\n    ]\n\n    [Footnote 3: Not to speak of Charlemagne, who ordered a\n    collection to be made of German songs.]\n\n    [Footnote 4: A fuller description of German harvest customs,\n    with remarks on their presumed meaning, will be found in the\n    Rev. J. Van den Gheyn's \"Essais de Mythologie et de Philologie\n    comparee,\" 1885.]\n\n    [Footnote 5: Mr W. R. S. Ralston has kindly communicated to me\n    this Russian version, which he translates: \"Snail, snail, put\n    forth thy horns, I will give to thee cakes.\"]\n\n    [Footnote 6: \"Les deux Masques,\" tome i. p. 1.]\n\n    [Footnote 7: \"Confessions,\" book iii. chap. 11.]\n\n    [Footnote 8: \"Shakespeare's Dramatic Art,\" 1876.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE INSPIRATION OF DEATH IN FOLK-POETRY.\n\n\nThe Roumanians call death \"the betrothed of the world:\" that which\nawaits. The Neapolitans give it the name of _la vedova_: that\nwhich survives. It would be easy to go on multiplying the stock of\ncontrasting epithets. Inevitable yet a surprise, of daily incidence\nyet a mystery, unvarying yet most various, a common fact yet incapable\nof becoming common-place, death may be looked at from innumerable\npoints of view; but, look at it how we will, it moves and excites\nour spiritual consciousness as nothing else can do. The first poet of\nhuman things was perhaps one who stood in the presence of death.\nIn the twilight that went before civilization the loves of men were\nprosaic, and intellectual unrest was remote, but there was already\nRachel weeping for her children and would not be comforted because\nthey are not. Death, high priest of the ideal, led man in his infancy\nthrough a crisis of awe passing into transcendent exaltation, kindred\nwith the state which De Quincey describes when recalling the feelings\nwrought in his childish brain by the loss of his sister. It set the\nchild-man asking why? first sign of a dawning intelligence; it told\nhim in familiar language that we lie on the borders of the unknown; it\nopened before him the infinite spaces of hope and fear; it shattered\nto pieces the dull round of the food-seeking present, and built up out\nof the ruins the perception of a past and a future. It was the symbol\nof a human oneness with the coming and going of day and night, summer\nand winter, the rising and receding tide. It caused even the rudest\nof men to speak lower, to tread more softly, revealing to him unawares\nthe angel Reverence. And above all, it wounded the heart of man. M.\nRenan says with great truth, \"Le grand agent de la marche du monde,\nc'est la douleur.\" What poetry owes to the bread of sorrow has never\nbeen better told than by the Greek folk-singer, who condenses it into\none brief sentence: \"Songs are the words spoken by those who suffer.\"\n\nThe influence of death on the popular imagination is shown in those\nballads of the supernatural of which folk-poetry offers so great an\nabundance as to make choice difficult. One of the most powerful as\nwell as the most widely diffused of the people's ghost stories is that\nwhich treats of the persecuted child whose mother comes out of her\ngrave to succour him. There are two or three variants of this among\nthe Czech songs. A child aged eighteen months loses his mother. As\nsoon as he is old enough to understand about such things, he asks his\nfather what he has done with her? \"Thy mother sleeps a heavy sleep, no\none will wake her; she lies in the graveyard hard by the gate.\" When\nthe child hears that, he runs to the graveyard. He loosens the earth\nwith a big pin and pushes it aside with his little finger. Then he\ncries mournfully, \"Ah! mother, little mother, say one little word to\nme!\" \"My child, I cannot,\" the mother replies, \"my head is weighed\ndown with clay; on my heart is a stone which burns like fire; go home\nlittle one, there you have another mother.\" \"Ah!\" rejoins he, \"she is\nnot good like you were. When she gives me bread she turns it thrice;\nwhen you gave it me you spread it with butter. When she combs my hair\nshe makes my head bleed; when you combed my hair, mother, you fondled\nit. When she bathes my feet she bruises them against the side of the\nbasin; when you bathed them you kissed them. When she washes my shirt\nshe loads me with curses; you used to sing whilst you washed.\" The\nmother answers: \"Go back to the house, my child, to-morrow I will come\nfor you.\" The child goes back to the house and lies down in his bed.\n\"Ah! father, my little father, make ready my winding-sheet, my\nsoul now belongs to God, my body to the grave, to the grave near my\nmother--how glad her heart will be!\" One day he was ill, the second he\ndied, the third day they buried him. The effect is heightened by the\ninterval placed between the mother's death and the child's awakening\nto his own forlorn condition. When the mother died he was too young to\nthink or to grieve. He did not know that she was gone until he missed\nher. Only by degrees, after years of harsh treatment, borne with the\npatience of a child or a dumb animal, he began to feel intuitively\nrather than to remember that it had not been always so--that he had\nonce been loved. Then, going straight to the point with the terrible\naccusative power that lies in children, he said to the father, \"What\nhave you done with my mother?\" He had been able to live and to suffer\nuntil he was old enough to think; when he thought, he died. Here\nwe have an instance, one of the many that exist, of a motive which,\nhaving recurred again and again in folk-poetry, gets handled at last\nby a master-poet, who gives it enduring shape and immortality. Victor\nHugo may or may not have known the popular legend. It is most likely\nthat he did not know it. Yet, stripped of the marvellous, and modified\nin certain secondary points of construction, the story is the story\nof \"Petit Paul,\" little Paul, the child of modern France, who takes\ncompany with Dante's Anselmuccio and Shakespeare's Arthur, and who\nwith them will live in the pity of all time. The Ruthenes affirm\nthat it was Christ who bade the child seek his mother's grave. The\nProvencal folk-poet begins his tale: \"You shall hear the complaint of\nthree very little children.\" The mother of these children was dead,\nthe father had married again. The new wife brought a hard time for the\nchildren, and the day came when they were like to starve. The littlest\nbegged for a bit of bread, and he got a kick which threw him to the\nground. Then the biggest of the brothers said, \"Get up and let us go\nto our mother in the graveyard; she will give us bread.\" They set out\nat once; on their way they met Jesus Christ.\n\n  Et ount anetz, mes angis,\n  Mes angis tant petits?\n\n\"Where are you going, my angels, my so very small angels?\" \"We go to\nthe graveyard to find our mother.\" Jesus Christ tells the mother to\ncome forth and give her children food. \"How would you have me come\nforth, when there is no strength left in me?\" He answers that her\nstrength shall come back to her for seven years. Now, as the end of\nthe seven years drew near, she was always sobbing and sighing, and the\nchildren asked why it was. \"I weep, my children, because I have to go\naway from you.\" \"Weep no more, mother, we will all go together; one\nshall carry the hyssop, another will take the taper, the last will\nhold the book. We will go home singing.\" The Provencal poet does not\ntell us what happened when the resuscitated wife came back to her\nformer abode; we have to go to Scandinavia for an account of that.\nDyring the Dane went to an island and wed a fair maiden. For seven\nyears they dwelt together and were blessed with children; but while\nthe youngest born was still a helpless babe, Death stalked through the\nland and carried off the young wife in his clutches. Dyring went to\nanother island and married a girl who was bad and spiteful. He brought\nher home to his house, and when she reached the door the six little\nchildren were there crying. She thrust them aside with her foot, she\ngave them no ale and no bread; she said, \"You shall suffer thirst and\nhunger.\" She took from them their blue cushions, and said, \"You shall\nsleep on straw.\" She took from them their wax candles, and said,\n\"You shall stay in the dark.\" In the evening, very late, the children\ncried, and their mother heard them under the ground. She listened as\nshe lay in her shroud, and thought to herself, \"I must go to my little\nchildren.\" She begged our Lord so hard to let her go, that her prayer\nwas granted. \"Only you must be back when the cock crows.\" She lifted\nher weary limbs, the grave gaped, she passed through the village, the\ndogs howled as she passed, throwing up their noses in the air. When\nshe got to the house, she saw her eldest daughter on the threshold.\n\"Why are you standing there, my dear daughter? Where are your brothers\nand sisters?\" The daughter knew her not. She said her mother was\nfair and blithe, her face was white and pink. \"How can I be fair and\nblithe? I am dead, my face is pale. How can I be white and pink, when\nI have been all this time in my winding-sheet?\" Answering thus, the\nmother hastened to her little children's chamber. She found them with\ntears running down their cheeks. She brushed the clothes of one, she\ntidied the hair of the second, she lifted the third from the floor,\nshe comforted the fourth, the fifth she set on her knee as though\nshe were fain to suckle it. To the eldest girl she said, \"Go and tell\nDyring to come here.\" And when he came she cried in wrath, \"I left you\nale and bread, and my little ones hunger; I left you blue cushions,\nand my little ones lie on straw; I left you waxen candles, and my\nlittle ones are in the dark. Woe betide you, if there be cause\nI should return again! Behold the red cock crows, the dead fly\nunderground. Behold the black cock crows, heaven's doors are thrown\nwide. Behold the white cock crows, I must begone.\" So saying she went,\nand was seen no more. Ever after that night each time Dyring and his\nwife heard the dogs bark they gave the children ale and bread; each\ntime they heard the dogs bay they were seized with dread of the dead\nwoman; each time they heard the dogs howl they trembled lest she\nshould come back. Two universal beliefs are introduced into this\nvariant: the disappearance of the dead at cock crow, and the\nconnection of the howling of dogs with death or the dead. The last\nis a superstition which still obtains a wide acceptance even among\neducated people. I was speaking of it lately to an English officer,\nwho stated that he had twice heard the death howl, once while on duty\nin Ireland, and once, if I remember right, in India. It was, he said,\ntotally unlike any other noise produced by a dog. I observed that\nall noises sound singular when the nerves are strained by painful\nexpectancy; but he answered that in his own case his feelings were not\ninvolved, as the death which occurred, in one instance at least, was\nthat of a perfect stranger.\n\nThe interpretation of dreams as a direct intercourse with the\nspiritual world is not usual in folk-lore; the people hardly see the\nneed of placing the veil of sleep between mortal eyes and ghostly\nappearances. In a Bulgarian song, however, a sleeping girl speaks with\nher dead mother. Militza goes down into the little garden where\nthe white and red roses are in bloom. She is weary, and she is soon\nasleep. A small fine rain begins to fall, the wind rustles in the\nleaves; Militza sighs, and having sighed, she awakes. Then she\nupbraids the rain and the wind: \"Whistle no more, O wind; thou, O\nrain, descend no more; for in my dreams I found my mother. Rain, may\nthy fount be dried; mayst thou be for ever silent, O wind: ye have\ntaken me from the counsel my mother gave me.\" The few lines thus\nbaldly summarized make up, as it seems to me, a little masterpiece of\ndelicate conception and light workmanship: one which would surprise us\nfrom the lips of a letterless poet, were there not proof that no touch\nis so light and so sure as that of the artificer untaught in our own\nsense--the man or the woman who produces the intricate filigree, the\nhighly wrought silver, the wood carving, the embroidery, the lace, the\nknitted wool rivalling the spider's web, the shawl with whose weft and\nwoof a human life is interwoven.\n\nI have only once come upon the case of a father who returns to take\ncare of his offspring. Mr Chu, a worthy Chinese gentleman, revisited\nthis earth as a disembodied spirit to guard and teach his little boy\nWei. When Wei reached the age of twenty-two, and took his doctor's\ndegree, his father, Mr Chu, finally vanished. As a general rule, the\nChinese consider the sight of his former surroundings to be the worst\npenalty that can befall a soul. Mr Herbert Giles, in his fascinating\nwork on the Liao-Chai of P'u Sing-Ling, gives a full account of the\nterrible See-one's-home terrace as represented in the fifth court of\nPurgatory in the Taoist Temples. Good souls, or even those who have\ndone partly good and partly evil, will never stand thereon. The souls\nof the wicked only see their homes as if they were near them: they see\ntheir last wishes disregarded, everything upside down, their substance\nsquandered, the husband prepares to take a new wife, strangers possess\nthe old estate, in their misery the dead man's family curse him, his\nchildren become corrupt, lands are gone, the house is burnt, the wife\nsees her husband tortured, the husband sees his wife stricken down\nwith mortal disease; friends forget: \"some perhaps for the sake of\nbygone times may stroke the coffin and let fall a tear, departing with\na cold smile.\" In the West, this gloomy creed is perhaps hinted at in\nthe French proverb, \"Les morts sont bien mort.\" But Western thought at\nits best, at its highest, imagines differently. It imagines that the\nmost gracious privilege of immortal spirits is that of beholding those\nbeloved of them in mortal life--\n\n              I am still near,\n  Watching the smiles I prized on earth,\n  Your converse mild, your blameless mirth.\n\nHappy and serene optimism!\n\nThe ghosts of folk-lore return not only to succour the innocent, they\ncome back also to convict the guilty. The avenging ghost shows himself\nin all kinds of strange and uncanny ways rather than in his habit as\nhe lived. He comes in animal or vegetable shape; or perhaps he uses\nthe agency of some inanimate object. In the Faroe Isles there is a\nstory of a girl whose sister pushed her into the sea out of jealousy.\nThe blue waves cast ashore her body, which was found by two pilgrims,\nwho made the arms into a harp, and the flaxen locks into strings. Then\nthey went and played the harp at the wedding feast of the murderess\nand the dead girl's betrothed. The first string said, \"The bride is\nmy sister.\" The second string said, \"The bride caused my death.\" The\nthird string said, \"The bridegroom is my betrothed.\" The harp's notes\nswelled louder and louder, and the guilty bride fell sick unto death;\nbefore the pilgrims had done playing, her heart broke. This is much\nthe same story as the \"Twa Sisters of Binnorie.\" A Slovack legend\ndescribes two musicians who, as they were travelling together, noticed\na fine plane tree; and one said to the other, \"Let us cut it down,\nit is just the thing to make a violin of; the violin will be equally\nyours and mine; we will play on it by turn.\" At the first blow the\ntree sighed; at the second blow blood spurted out; at the third blow\nthe tree began to talk. It said: \"Musicians, fair youths, do not cut\nme down; I am not a tree, I am made of flesh and blood; I am a lovely\ngirl of the neighbouring town; my mother cursed me while I drew\nwater--while I drew water and chatted with my friend. 'Mayst thou\nchange into a plane tree with broad leaves,' said she. Go ye,\nmusicians, and play before my mother.\" So they betook themselves\nto the mother's door and played a dirge over her child. \"Play not,\nmusicians, fair youths,\" she entreated. \"Rend not my heart by your\nplaying. I have enough of woe in having lost my daughter. Hapless the\nmother who curses her children!\" The well-known German tale of the\njuniper tree belongs to the same class. A beautiful little boy is\nkilled by his step-mother, who serves him up as a dish of meat to his\nfather. The father eats in ignorance, and throws away the bones, which\nare gathered up by the little half-sister, who puts them into her best\nsilk handkerchief and buries them under a juniper tree. Presently a\nbird of gay plumage perches on the tree, and whistles as it flits from\nbranch to branch--\n\n  Min moder de mi slach't,\n  Min fader de mi att,\n  Min swester de Marleenken\n  Soecht alle mine Beeniken,\n  Und bindt sie in een syden Dook\n  Legst unner den Machandelboom;\n  Ky witt! ky witt! Ach watt en schoen vagel bin ich!\n\n--a rhyme which Goethe puts into the mouth of Gretchen in prison. In\nthe German story the step-mother's brains are knocked out by the fall\nof a mill-stone, and the bird-boy is restored to human form; but in\na Scotch variant the last event does not take place. It may have been\nthrown in by some narrator who had a weakness for a plot which ends\nwell. All these wonder-tales had probably an original connection\nwith a belief in the transmigration of souls. In truth, the people's\n_Maerchen_ are rooted nearly always on some article of ancient faith:\nthat is why they have so long a life. Faith vitalizes poetry or legend\nor art; and what once lived takes a great time to die. Now that the\nbeliefs which fostered them have gone into the lumber-room of disused\nreligions, the old wonder-tales still have a freshness and a horror\nwhich cannot be found even in the best of brand-new \"made-up\" stories.\n\nAnother reason why the dead come back is to fulfil a promise. The\nGreek mother of the Kleft song has nine sons and one only daughter.\nShe bathes her in the darkness, her hair she combs in the light, she\ndresses her beneath the shining of the moon. A stranger from Bagdad\nhas asked her in marriage, and Constantine, one of the sons, counsels\nhis mother to give her to the stranger. \"Thou art wont to be prudent,\nbut in this thou art senseless,\" says the mother. \"Who will bring her\nback to me if there be joy or sorrow?\" Constantine gives her God as\nsurety, and all the saints and martyrs, that if there be sorrow or joy\nhe will bring her back. In two years all the nine sons die, and when\nit is Constantine's turn, the mother leans over his body and tears\nher hair. Fain would she have back her daughter Arete, and behold\nConstantine lies dead. At midnight Constantine gets up and goes to\nwhere his sister dwells, and bids Arete to follow him. She asks what\nhas happened, but he tells her nothing. While they journey along the\nbirds sing: \"See you that lovely girl riding with the dead?\" Then\nArete asks her brother if he heard what the birds said. \"They are only\nbirds,\" he answers; \"never mind them.\" She says her brother has such\nan odour of incense that it fills her with fear, \"It is only,\" he\nsays, \"because we passed the evening in the chapel of St John.\" When\nthey reach their home, the mother opens the portal and sees the dead\nand the living come in together, and her soul leaves her body. The\nmotive of a ride with the dead, made familiar by the \"Erl Koenig\"\nand Burgher's \"Lenore,\" can be traced through endless variations in\nfolk-poesy.\n\nIn the Swedish ballad of \"Little Christina,\" a lover rises from his\ngrave, not to carry off his beloved, but simply to console her. One\nnight Christina hears light fingers tapping at her door; she opens it,\nand her dead betrothed comes in. She washes his feet with pure wine,\nand for a long while they speak together. Then the cocks begin to\ncrow, and the dead get them underground. The young girl puts on her\nshoes and follows her betrothed through the wide forest. When\nthey reach the graveyard, the fair hair of the young man begins to\ndisappear. \"See, maiden,\" he says, \"how the moon has reddened all at\nonce; even so, in a moment, thy beloved will vanish.\" She sits down on\nthe tomb and says: \"I shall remain here till the Lord calls me.\" Then\nshe hears the voice of her betrothed saying to her: \"Little Christina,\ngo back to thy dwelling-place. Every time a tear falls from thine eyes\nmy shroud is full of blood. Every time thy heart is gay, my shroud is\nfull of rose leaves.\"\n\nIf the display of excessive grief is thus shown to be only grievous to\nthe dead, yet they are held to be keenly sensible of a lack of due and\ndecorous respect. Such respect they generally get from rough or savage\nnatures, unless it be denied out of intentional scorn or enmity. There\nis a factory in England where common men are employed to manipulate\nlarge importations of bones for agricultural uses. Each cargo contains\na certain quantity of bones which are very obviously human. These the\nworkmen sort out, and when they have got a heap they bury it, and ask\nthe manager to read over it some passages from the Burial Service.\nThey do it of their own free will and initiative; were they hindered,\nthey would very likely leave the works. Shall it be called foolish or\nsublime? Another curious instance of respect to the dead comes to my\nmind. On board ship two cannon balls are ordinarily sewed up with a\nbody to sink it. Once a negro died at sea, and his fellows, negroes\nalso, took him in a boat and rowed a long way to a place where they\nwere to commit him to the deep. After a while the boat returned to\nthe ship, still with its burden. The explanation was soon made. The\nnegroes discovered that they had only one cannon ball, they had rowed\nback for the other. One would have been quite enough to answer all\npurposes; but it seemed to them disrespectful to their comrade to\ncheat him out of half his due.\n\nThe dead particularly object to people treading carelessly on their\ngraves. So we learn from one of the songs of Greek outlawry.\n\n  All Saturday we held carouse, and far through Sunday night,\n  And on the Monday morn we found our wine expended quite.\n  To seek for more without delay the captain made me go;\n  I ne'er had seen nor known the way, nor had a guide to show.\n  And so through solitary roads and secret paths I sped,\n  Which to a little ivied church long time deserted led.\n  This church was full of tombs, and all by gallant men possest;\n  One sepulchre stood all alone, apart from all the rest.\n\n  I did not see it, and I trod above the dead man's bones,\n  And as from out the nether world came up a sound of groans.\n  What ails thee, sepulchre? why thus so deeply groan and sigh?\n  Doth the earth press, or the black stone weigh on thee heavily?\n  \"Neither the earth doth press me down, nor black stone do me scath,\n  But I with bitter grief am wrung, and full of shame and wrath,\n  That thou dost trample on my head, and I am scorned in death.\n  Perhaps I was not also young, nor brave and stout in fight,\n  Nor wont as thou, beneath the moon, to wander through the night.\"\n\nEgil Skallagrimson, after his son was drowned, resolved to let himself\ndie of hunger. Thorgerd, his daughter, came to him and prayed hard of\nhim that he would sing. Touched by her affection, he made an effort,\ngathered up his ideas, dressed them in images, expressed them in song;\nand as he sang, his regrets softened, and in the end his soul became\nso calm that he was satisfied to live. In this beautiful saga lies the\nsecret of folk-elegies. The people find comfort in singing. A Czech\nmaiden asks of the dark woods how they can be as green in winter as in\nsummer; as for her, she cannot help vexing her heart. \"But who would\nnot weep in my place? Where is my father, my beloved father? The sandy\nplain is his winding-sheet. Where is my mother, my good mother? The\ngrass grows over her. I have no brother and no sister, and they have\ntaken away my friend.\" Of a certainty when she had sung, her vexed\nheart was lighter. \"Seul a un synonym: mort.\" Yes, but he who sings\nis scarcely alone, even though there be only the waving pine woods to\nanswer with a sigh. The most passionate laments of the Sclavonic race\nare for father and mother. If a Little Russian loses both his parents\nhis despair is such that it often drives him forth a wanderer on the\nface of the earth. One so bereft cries out, \"Dear mother, why didst\nthou suffer me to see the day? Why didst thou bring me into the world\nwithout obtaining for me by thy prayers a portion of its blessings?\nMy father and my mother are dead, and with them my country. Why was I\nleft a wretched orphan? Oh, could I find a being miserable as myself\nthat we might sympathize one with the other!\" The birth-ties of\nkindred are reckoned the only strong ones. Some Russian lines,\ntranslated by Mr Ralston, indicate the degrees of mourning:\n\n  There weeps his mother--as a river runs;\n  There weeps his sister--as a streamlet flows;\n  There weeps his youthful wife--as falls the dew;\n  The sun will rise and gather up the dew.\n\nA Servian _pesma_ illustrates the same idea. Young Toevo has the\nmisfortune to break his arm. A doctor is fetched--no other than a Vila\nof the mountain. The wily sprite demands in guerdon for the cure the\nright hand of the mother, the sister's long hair, with the ribbons\nthat bind it, the pearl necklace of the wife. Quickly the mother\nsacrifices her right hand, quickly the sister cuts off her much-prized\nbraid, but the wife says, \"Give up my white pearls that my father gave\nme? Not I!\" The Vila waxes angry and poisons Toevo's blood. When he is\ndead three women fall \"a-kookooing\"--one groans without ceasing; one\nsobs at dawn and dusk; one weeps just now and then when it comes into\nher head so to do. As the cuckoo is supposed to be a sister mourning\nfor her brother, kookooing has come to mean lamenting. The Servian\ngirl who has lately lost her brother cannot hear the cuckoo's note\nwithout weeping. In popular poetry the love of sister for brother\ntakes precedence even of the love of mother for child. Not only does\nGudrun in the Elder Edda esteem the murder of her first lord, the\ngod-like Sigurd, to be of less importance than that of her brothers,\nbut also to avenge their deaths, she has no scruple in slaying both\nher second husband and her own sons. A Bulgarian ballad shows in still\nmore striking light the relative value set on the lives of child\nand brother. There was a certain man named Negul, whose head was in\ndanger. The folk-poet is careful to express no sort of censure upon\nhis hero, but the boasts he is made to utter are sufficient guides to\nhis character. Great numbers of Turks has he put to flight, and yet\nmore women has he killed of those who would not follow him meekly as\nhis wives. \"And now,\" he adds plaintively, \"a misfortune has befallen\nme which I have done nothing at all to deserve.\" His sister Milenka\nhears him bemoaning his fate, and at once she says to him, \"Brother\nNegul, Negul, my brother, do not disturb yourself, do not distress\nyourself; I have nine sons, nine sons and one daughter; the youngest\nof all is Lalo; him will I sacrifice to save you; I will sacrifice him\nso that you may remain to me.\" This was the promise of Milenka. Then\nshe hastened to her own home and prepared hot meats and set flasks of\ngolden wine wherewith to feast her sons. \"Eat and drink together,\"\nshe said, \"and kiss one another's hands, for Lalo is going away to be\ngroomsman to his Uncle Negul. Let your mother see you all assembled,\nand serve you each in turn with ruddy wine and with smoking viands.\"\nFor the others she did not wholly fill the glass, but Lalo's glass\nshe filled to the brim. Meanwhile Elka, Lalo's sister, made ready his\nclothes for the journey; and as she busied about it, the little girl\ncried because Lalo was going to be groomsman, and they had not asked\nher to be bridesmaid. Lalo said to Elka, \"Elka, my little only sister,\ndo not cry so, sister; do not be so vexed; we are nine brothers, and\none of these days you will surely act as bridesmaid.\" The words were\nhardly spoken when the headsmen reached the door. They took Lalo,\nthe groomsman, and they chopped off his head in place of his Uncle\nNegul's.\n\nA new and different world is entered when we follow the folk-poet\nupon the wrestling-ground of Death and Love. If I have judged rightly,\nthere were songs of death before there were any other love songs than\nthose of the nightingale; but the folk-poet was still young when he\nlearnt to sing of love, and the love poet found out early that his\nlyre was incomplete without the string of death. In all folk-poetry\ncan be plainly heard that music of love and death which may be\nsaid almost to have been the dominant note that sounded through the\nliterature of the ages of romance. Sometimes the victory is given to\ndeath, sometimes to love; in one song love, while yielding, conquers.\nFolk-poetry has not anything more instinct with the quality of\nintensity than is this \"Last Request\" of a Greek robber-lover--\n\n  When thou shalt hear that I am ill,\n    O my well-beloved! he said,\n  O come to me, and quickly come,\n    Or thou wilt find me dead.\n  And when that thou hast reached the house,\n    And the great gates passed through,\n  Then, O my well-beloved, the braids\n    Of thy bright hair undo.\n  And to my mother say straightway,\n    Tell me, where is your son?\n  My son is lying on his bed\n    In his chamber all alone.\n  Then mount the stairs, O my well-beloved,\n    And come your lover anigh,\n  And smooth my pillow that I may\n    Raise me a little high,\n  And hold my head up in thy hands\n    Till flies away my soul.\n  And when thou seest the priest arrive,\n    And dress him in his stole,\n  Then place, my well-beloved, a kiss\n    On my lips pale and cold;\n  And when four youths shall lift me up,\n    And on their shoulders hold,\n  Then shalt thou, O my well-beloved,\n    Cast at them many a stone.\n  And when they reach thy neighbourhood\n    And by thy house pass on,\n  Then, O my well-beloved, thy hair,\n    Thy golden tresses cut;\n  And when they reach the church's gate,\n    And there my coffin put,\n  Then as the hen her feathers plucks,\n    So pluck thy hair for me.\n  And when my dirges all are done,\n    And lights extinguished be,\n  Then shall my heart, O well-beloved,\n    Still be possessed of thee.\n\nWe hardly notice the adventitious part of it--the ancient custom of\ntearing off the hair, the strange stone-casting at the youths who\nrepresent Charon; our attention is absorbed by what is the essence\nof the song: passion which has burned itself into pure fire. Greek\nfolk-poetry shows a blending together of southern emotions with an\nimaginative fervour, a prophetic power that is rather of the East than\nof the South. No Tuscan ploughman, for instance, could seize the idea\nof the Greek folk-poet of possessing his living love in death. If the\nTuscan thinks of a union in the grave, it can only be attained by the\none who remains joining the one who is gone--\n\n  O friendly soil,\n  Soil that doth hold my love in thine embrace,\n  Soon as for me shall end life's war and toil\n  Beneath thy sod I too would have a place;\n  Where my love is, there do I long to be,\n  Where now my heart is buried far from me--\n  Yes, where my love is gone I long to go,\n  Robbed of my heart I bear too deep a woe.\n\nThis stringer of pretty conceits fails to convince us that he is\nvery much in earnest in his wish to die. Speaking in the sincerity of\nprose, the Tuscan says, \"Ogni cosa e meglio che la morte.\" He does\nnot believe in the nothingness of life. In his worst troubles he still\nfeels that all his faculties, all his senses, are made for pleasure.\nDeath is to him the affair of a not cheerful religious ceremony--a\ncross borne before a black draped bier, and bells tolling dolefully.\n\n  I hear Death's step, I see him at my side,\n  I feel his bony fingers clasp me round;\n  I see the church's door is open wide,\n  And for the dead I hear the knell resound.\n  I see the cross and the black pall outspread;\n  Love, thou dost lead me whither lie the dead!\n  I see the cross, the winding-sheet I see;\n  Love, to the graveyard thou art leading me!\n\nGoing further south, a stage further is reached in crude externality\nof vision. People of the South are the only born realists. To them\nthat comes natural which in others is either affectation or the\nfruits of what the French call _l'amour du laid_--a morbid love of the\nhideous, such as marred the fine genius of Baudelaire. At Naples death\nis a matter of corruption naked in the sunlight. When the Neapolitan\ntakes his mandoline amongst the tombs he unveils their sorry secrets,\nnot because he gloats over them, but because the habit of a reserve\nof speech is entirely undeveloped in him. He dares to sing thus of his\nlost love--\n\n  Her lattice ever lit no light displays.\n  My Nella! can it be that you are ill?\n  Her sister from the window looks and says:\n  \"Your Nella in the grave lies cold and still.\n  Ofttimes she wept to waste her life unwed,\n  And now, poor child, she sleeps beside the dead.\"\n  Go to the church and lift the winding-sheet,\n  Gaze on my Nella's face--how changed, alas!\n  See 'twixt those lips whence issued flowers so sweet\n  Now loathsome worms (ah! piteous sight!) do pass.\n  Priest, let it be your care, and promise me,\n  That evermore her lamp shall lighted be.\n\nThe song beats with the pulses of the people's life--the life of a\npeople swift in gesture, in action, in living, in dying: always in a\nhurry, as if one must be quick for the catastrophe is coming. They are\nall here: the lover waiting in the street for some sign or word; the\ngirl leaning out of window to tell her piece of news; the \"poor\nchild\" who had drunk of the lava stream of love; the dead lying\nuncoffined in the church to be gazed upon by who will; the priest\nto whom are given those final instructions: pious, and yet how\nuncomforting, how unilluminated by hope or even aspiration! Here there\nis no thought of reunion. A kind-hearted German woman once tried to\nconsole a young Neapolitan whose lover was dead, by saying that they\nmight meet in Paradise. \"In Paradise?\" she answered, opening her large\nblack eyes; \"Ah! signora, in Paradise people do not marry.\"\n\nThe coming back or reappearance of a lover, in whose absence his\nbeloved has died, is a subject that has been made use of by the\nfolk-poets of every country, and nothing can be more characteristic of\nthe nationalities to which they belong than the divergences which\nmark their treatment of it. Northern singers turn the narrative of\nthe event into half a fairy tale. On the banks of the Moldau we are\nintroduced to a joyous youth, returning with glad steps to his native\nvillage. \"My pretty girls, my doves, is my friend cutting oats with\nyou?\" he asks of a group of girls working in the fields near his home.\n\"Only yesterday,\" they reply, \"his friend was buried.\" He begs them\nto tell him by which path they bore her away. It is a road edged with\nrosemary; everybody knows it--it leads to the new cemetery. Thither\nhe goes, thrice he wanders round the place, the third time he hears a\nvoice crying, \"Who is it treads on my grave and breaks the rest of\nthe dead?\" \"It is I, thy friend,\" he says, and he bids her rise up\nand look on him. She says she cannot, she is too weak, her heart is\nlifeless, her hands and feet are like stones. But the gravedigger has\nleft his spade hard by; with it her friend can shovel away the earth\nthat holds her down. He does what she tells him; when the earth is\nlifted he beholds her stretched out at full length, a frozen maiden\ncrowned with rosemary. He asks to whom has she bequeathed his gifts.\nShe answers that her mother has them; he must go and beg them of her.\nThen shall he throw the little scarf upon a bush, and there will be an\nend to his love. And the silver ring he shall cast into the sea, and\nthere will be an end to his grief. On the shores of the Wener it is\nLord Malmstein who wakes before dawn from a dream that his beloved's\nheart is breaking. \"Up, up, my little page, saddle the grey; I must\nknow how it fares with my love.\" He mounts the horse and gallops into\nthe forests. Of a sudden two little maids stand in his path; one wears\na dress of blue, and hails him with the words: \"God keep you, Lord\nMalmstein; what bale awaits you!\" The other is dight in red, and of\nher Lord Malmstein asks, \"Who is ill, and who is dead?\" \"No one is\nill, no one is dead, save only the betrothed of Malmstein.\" He makes\nhaste to reach the village; on the way he meets the bier of his\nbetrothed. Swiftly he leaps from the saddle; he pulls from off his\nfinger rings of fine gold, and throws them to the gravedigger--\"Delve\na grave deep and wide, for therein we will walk together.\" His face\nturns red and white, and he deals a mortal blow at his heart. This\nSwedish Malmstein not only figures as the reappearing lover; he\nis also one of that familiar pair whom death unites. In an ancient\nRomansch ballad the story is simply an episode of peasant life. A\nyoung Engadiner girl is forced by her father to marry a man of the\nvillage of Surselva, but all the while her troth is plighted to a\nyouth from the village of Schams. On the road to Surselva the lover\njoins the bride and bridegroom unknown to the latter. When they reach\nthe place the people declare that they have never seen so fair a\nwoman as the youthful bride. Her husband's father and mother greet\nher saying, \"Daughter, be thou welcome to our house!\" But she answers,\n\"No, I have never been your daughter, nor do I hope ever to be; for\nthe time is near when I must die.\" Then her brothers and sisters greet\nher saying, \"O sister, be thou welcome to our house!\" \"No,\" she says,\n\"I have never been your sister, nor do I ever hope to be; for the time\ncomes when I must die. Only one kindness I ask of you, give me a room\nwhere I may rest.\" They lead her to her chamber, they try to comfort\nher with sweet words; but the more they would befriend her, the more\ndoes the young bride turn her mind away from this world. Her lover is\nby her side, and to him she says, \"O my beloved, greet my father and\nmy mother; tell them that perhaps they have rejoiced their hearts, but\nsure it is they have broken mine.\" She turns her face to the wall and\nher soul returns to God. \"O my beloved,\" cries the lover, \"as thou\ndiest, and diest for me, for thee will I gladly die.\" He throws\nhimself upon the bed, and his soul follows hers. As the clock struck\ntwo they carried her to the grave, as the clock struck three they came\nfor him; the marriage bells rang them to their rest; the chimes of\nSchams answering back the chimes of Surselva. From the grave mound of\nthe girl grew a camomile plant, from the grave mound of the youth a\nplant of musk; and for the great love they bore one another even the\nflowers twined together and embraced.\n\n  Uoi, i suel toembel da quella bella\n  Craschiva sue uena flur da chiaminella;\n  Uoi, i suel toembel da que bel mat\n  Craschiva sue uena flur nusch muschiat;\n  Per tant grond bain cha queus dus as leivan,\n  Parfin las fluors insemmel as brancleivan.\n\nIt is a sign of a natural talent for democracy when the people like\nbetter to tell stories about themselves than to discuss the fortunes\nof prince or princess. The devoted lovers are more often to be looked\nfor in the immediate neighbourhood of a court. So it is in the ballad\nof Count Nello of Portugal. Count Nello brings his horse to bathe;\nwhile the horse drinks, the Count sings. It was already very dark--the\nKing could not recognise him. The poor Infanta knew not whether to\nlaugh or to cry. \"Be quiet, my daughter; listen and thou wilt hear a\nbeautiful song. It is an angel singing, or the siren in the sea.\" \"No,\nit is no angel in heaven, nor is it the siren of the sea; it is Count\nNello, my father, he who fain would wed me.\" \"Who speaks of Count\nNella who dare name him, the rebel vassal whom I have exiled?\" \"My\nLord, mine only is the fault; you should punish me alone; I cannot\nlive without him; it is I who have made him come.\" \"Hold thy peace,\ntraitress; before day dawns thou shalt see his head cut off.\" \"The\nheadsman who slays him may prepare for me too; there where you dig his\ngrave dig mine also.\" For whom are the bells tolling? Count Nello is\ndead; the Infanta is like to die. The two graves are open; behold!\nthey lay the Count near the porch of the church and the Infanta at\nthe foot of the altar. On one grave grows a cypress, on the other an\norange tree; one grows, the other grows; their branches join and kiss.\nThe king, when he hears of it, orders them both to be cut down. From\nthe cypress flows noble blood, from the orange tree blood royal; from\none flies forth a dove, from the other a wood-pigeon. When the\nking sits at table the birds perch before him. \"Ill luck upon their\nfondness,\" he cries, \"ill luck upon their love! Neither in life nor in\ndeath have I been able to divide them.\" The musk and the camomile\nof Switzerland, the cypress and the orange tree of Portugal, are the\ncypress and the reed of the Greek folk-song, the thorn and olive of\nthe Norman _chanson_, the rose and the briar of the English ballad,\nthe vine and the rose of the Tristram and Iseult story. Through the\nworld they tell their tale--\n\n  Amor condusse noi ad una morte.\n\nThe death of heroes has provided an inexhaustible theme for\nfolk-poets. The chief or partisan leader had his complement in the\nskald or bard or roving ballad-singer; if the one acted, turned tribes\ninto nations, cut out history, the other sang, published his\nfame, gave his exploits to the future, preserved to his people the\nremembrance of his dying words. The poetry of hero-worship, beginning\non Homeric heights, descends to the \"lytell gestes\" of all sorts\nand conditions of more or less respectable and patriotic outlaws and\n_condottieri_, whose \"passing\" is often the most honourable point\nin their career. On the principle which has been followed--that of\nletting the folk-poet speak for himself, and show what are his ideas\nand his impressions after his own manner and in his own language--I\nwill take three death scenes from amongst the less known of those\nrecorded in popular verse. The first is Scandinavian. What ails\nHjalmar the Icelander? Why is his face so pale? The Norse Warrior\nanswers: \"Sixteen wounds have I, and my armour is shattered. All\nthings grow black in my sight; I reel in walking; the bloody sword of\nAgantyr has pierced my heart. Had I five houses in the fields I could\nnot dwell in one of them; I must abide at Samsa, hopeless and mortally\nwounded. At Upsal, in the halls of Josur, many Jarls quaff joyously\nthe foaming ale, many Jarls exchange hot words; but as for me, I am\nhere in this island, struck down by the point of the sword. The white\ndaughter of Hilmer accompanied my steps to Aganfik beyond the reefs;\nher words are come true, for she said I should return no more. Draw\noff my finger the ring of ruddy gold, bear it to my youthful Ingebrog,\nit will remind her that she will see me never more. In the east\nupsoars the raven; after him the mightier eagle wings his way. I will\nbe meat for the eagle and my heart's blood his drink.\" One backward\nlook to all that was the joy of his life--the feast, the fight, the\nwoman he loved--and then a calm facing of the end. This is how the\nNorseman died. The Greek hero, who dies peaceably in the ripeness of\nold age, meets his doom with even less trouble of spirit--\n\n  The sun sank down behind the hill,\n    And Dimos faintly said,\n  'Go, children, fetch your evening meal--\n    The water and the bread.\n  Thou, Lamprakis, my brother's son,\n    Come hither, by me stand,\n  And arm me with my weapons,\n    And be captain of the band.\n  And, children, take my dear old sword\n    That I no more shall sway,\n  And cut the green boughs from the trees\n    And there my body lay;\n  And hither bring a priestly man\n    To whom I may confess,\n  That I may tell him all my sins,\n    And he forgive and bless.\n  For thirty years a soldier,\n    Twenty years a kleft was I;\n  Now death o'ertakes and seizes me,\n    'Tis finished, I must die.\n  And be ye sure ye make my grave\n    Of ample height and large,\n  That in it I may stand upright,\n    Or lie my gun to charge.\n  And to the right a lattice make,\n    A passage for the day,\n  Where the swallow, bringing springtide,\n    May dart about and play,\n  And the nightingale, sweet singer,\n    Tell the happy month of May.\n\nThe slight natural touches--the eagle soaring against the sunrise, the\nnightingale singing through the May nights--suggest an intuition of\nthe will-of-the-wisp affinity between nature and human chances which\nseems for ever on the point of being seized, but which for ever eludes\nthe mental grasp. We think of the \"brown bird\" in the noble \"Funeral\nSong\" of one who would have been a magnificent folk-poet, had he not\nlearnt to write and read--Walt Whitman.\n\nMy third specimen is a Piedmontese ballad composed probably about\na hundred and fifty years ago, and still very popular. Count Nigra\nascertained the existence of eight or more variants. A German soldier,\nknown in Italy as the Baron Lodrone, took arms under the house of\nSavoy, in whose service he presently died. \"In Turin,\" begins the\nballad, \"counts and barons and noble dames mourn for the death of the\nBaron Lodrone.\" The king went to Cuneo to visit his dying soldier;\ndrums and cannons greeted his approach. He spoke kind words to the\nsick man: \"Courage, thou wilt not die, and I will give thee the\nsupreme command.\" \"There is no commander who can stand against death,\"\nanswered the baron. Now Lodrone was a Protestant, and when the king\nwas convinced that he must die, he exhorted him to conversion, saying\nthat he himself would stand his sponsor. Lodrone replied that that\ncould not be. The king did not insist; he only asked him where he\nwould be buried, and promised him a sepulchre of gold. He answered--\n\n  Mi lasserue per testament\n  Ch 'a mi sotero an val d' Lueserna,\n  An val d' Lueserna a m sotraran\n  Dova l me coer s'arposa tan!\n\nHe does not care for a golden sepulchre, but he \"leaves for testament\"\nthat his body may lie in Val Luserna, \"where my heart rests so well!\"\nThe valley of Luserna was the seat of the Vaudois faith in the \"alpine\nmountains cold,\" watered with martyr blood only a little while before\nLodrone lived. To read these four simple lines after the fantasia of\nwild or whimsical guesses, passionate longing, unresisted despair,\ninsatiable curiosity, that death has been seen to create or inspire,\nis like going out of a public place with its multiform and voluble\npresentment of men and things into the aisles of a small church which\nwould lie silent but that unseen hands pass over the organ keys.\n\n\n\n\nNATURE IN FOLK-SONGS.\n\n\nNature, like music, does not initially make us think, it makes us\nfeel. A midnight scene in the Alps, a sunrise on the Mediterranean,\nsuspends at the moment of contemplating it all thought in pure\nemotion. Afterwards, however, thought comes back and asks for a reason\nfor the emotion that has been felt. Man at an early age began to try\nand explain, or give a tangible shape, to the feelings wrought in him\nby Nature. In the first place he called the things that he saw gods,\n\"because the things are beautiful that are seen.\" Later on, seers and\nmyth-makers resigned their birthright into the hands of poets, who\nbecame henceforth the interpreters between nature and man. A small\npiece of this succession fell away from the great masters of the\nworld's song, and was picked up almost unconsciously by the obscure\nand nameless folk-singer. Comparative folk-lore has shown that men\nhave everywhere the same customs, the same superstitions, the same\ngames. The study of folk-songs will go far to show that if they have\nnot likewise a complete community of taste and sentiment, yet even in\nthese, the finer fibres of their being, there is less of difference\nand more of analogy than has been hitherto supposed. Folk-songs\nprove, for instance, that the modern unschooled man is not so utterly\nignorant of natural beauty as many of us have imagined him to be. Only\nwe must not go from the extreme of expecting nothing to the extreme of\nexpecting too much; it has to be borne in mind that at best folk-poesy\nis rather the stammering speech of children than a mature eloquence.\n\nIt is a common idea that, until the other day, mountains were looked\nupon with positive aversion. Still we know that there were always men\nwho felt the power of the hills: the men who lived in the hills.\nWhen they were kept too long in the plain without hope of return they\nsickened and died; when a vivid picture of their mountains was of a\nsudden brought up before them, they lost control over their actions.\nBy force of association the sound of the _Kuhreihen_ could doubtless\ngive the Switzer a vision of the white peak, the milky torrent, the\nchalet with slanting roof, the cows tripping down the green Alp to\ntheir night quarters. It is disappointing to find that the words\naccompanying the famous cow-call are as a rule mere nonsense. The\nfirst observation which the genuine folk-poet makes about mountains\nis the sufficiently self-evident one, that they form a wall between\nhimself and the people on the further side. The old Pyrenean balladist\nseized the political significance of this: \"When God created those\nmountains,\" he said, \"He did not mean that men should cross them.\"\nVery often the mountain wall is spoken of as a barrier which separates\nlovers. The Gascon peasants have an adaptation of Gaston Phoebus'\nromance:--\n\n  Aqueros mountines\n    Qui ta haoutes soun,\n  M'empechen de bede\n    Mas arnous oun soun.\n\nIn Bohemia the simple countryman poetises after much the same fashion\nas the Gascon cavalier: \"Mountain, mountain, thou art very high! My\nfriend, thou art far off, far beyond the mountains. Our love will fade\nyet more and yet more; there is nothing left for me; in this world\nno pleasantness remains.\" Another Czech singer laments that he is\nnot where his thought is; if only the mountains did not stand between\nthem, he would see his beloved walking in the garden and plucking blue\nflowers. He tries what a prayer will do: \"Mountains, black mountains,\nstep aside, so I may get my good friend for wife.\" In similar terms\nthe native of Friuli begs the dividing range to stoop so he may look\nupon his love. Among Italian folk-poets the Friulian is foremost as\na lover of the greater heights; he turns to them habitually in his\nmoments of poetic inspiration, and, as he says, their echoes repeat\nhis sighs. It must be admitted that the Tuscan, on the contrary, feels\nsmall sympathy with high mountains; if he speaks of one he is careful\nto call it _aspra_, or rough and bitter. But he yields to no man\nin his delight in the lesser hills, the _be' poggioli_ of his fair\nbirthland. Even if an intervening hillock divides him from his beloved\nhe speaks of the barrier tenderly rather than sadly: \"O sun, thou that\ngoest over the hill-top, do me a kindness if thou canst--greet my\nlove whom I have not seen to-day. O sun, thou that goest over the\npear-trees, greet those black eyes. O sun, thou that goest over\nthe small ash-trees, greet those beautiful eyes!\" A maiden sings\nto herself, \"I see what I see and I see not what I would; I see the\nleaves flying in the air and I do not see my love turn back from the\nhill-top. I do not see him turn back.... that beautiful face has gone\nover the hill.\" A youth tells all his story in these few words: \"As I\npassed over the mountain-crest thy beautiful name came into my mind; I\nfell upon my knees and I joined my hands, and to have left thee seemed\na sin. I fell upon my knees on the hard stones; may our love come back\nas of yore!\" These are pure love-songs; not by any means descriptions\nof scenery, and yet how much of the Tuscan landscape lives in them!\n\nAlmost the only folk-song which is avowedly descriptive of a mountain,\ncomes from South Greenland:--\n\n    The great Koonak Mount yonder south I do behold it. The great\n    Koonak Mount yonder south I regard it. The shining brightness\n    yonder south I contemplate. Outside of Koonak it is expanding;\n    the same that Koonak towards the sea-side doth encompass.\n    Behold how yonder south they tend to beautify each other;\n    while from the sea-side it is enveloped in sheets still\n    changing; from the sea-side it is enveloped to mutual\n    embellishment.\n\nAt the first reading all this may seem incoherent; at the second or\nthird we begin to see the scene gradually rising before us; the masses\nof sea-born cloud sweeping on and up at dawn or sunset, till, finding\ntheir passage barred, they enwrap the obstacle in folds of golden\nvapour. It is singular that the Eskimo is incessantly gazing\nsouthwards; can it be that he, too, is dimly sensible of what a great\nwriter has called \"_la fatigue du Nord_\"?\n\nIncidental mention of the varying aspects of peak and upland is common\nenough in popular songs. The Bavarian peasant notices the clearness of\nthe heights while mist hangs over the valley:--\n\n  Im Thal ist der Nebel\n  Auf der Alm is schon klar ...\n\nThe Basque observes the \"misty summits;\" the Greek sees the cloud\nhurrying to the heights \"like winged messengers.\" There is the closest\nintimacy between the Greek and his mountains. When he has won a\nvictory for freedom, they cry aloud, \"God is great!\" When he is in\nsorrow he pines for them as for the society of friends: \"Why am I not\nnear the hills? Why have I not the mountains to keep me company?\" A\nsick Kleft cries to the birds, \"Birds, shall I ever be cured? Birds,\nshall I recover my strength?\" To which the birds reply just as might\na fashionable physician who recommends his patient to try Pontresina:\n\"If thou wouldst be cured, if thou wouldst have thy wounds close up,\ngo thou to the heights of Olympus, to the beautiful uplands where the\nstrong man never suffers, where the suffering regain their strength.\"\nThis fine figure of speech also occurs in a Kleft song: \"The plains\nthirst for water, the mountains thirst for snow.\"\n\nThe effect of light on his native ice-fields has not escaped the\nSwitzer: \"The sun shines on the glacier, and in the heavens shine the\nstars; O thou, my chiefest joy, how I love thee!\" A Czech balladist\ndescribes two chieftains travelling towards the sunrise, with\nmountains to the right and to the left, on whose summit stands the\ndawn. Again, he represents a band of warriors halting on the spurs of\nthe forest, while before them lies Prague, silent and asleep, with\nthe Veltava shrouded in morning mist; beyond, the mountains turn blue;\nbeyond the mountains the east is illuminated. In Bohemia mountains are\nspoken of as blue or grey or shadowy; in Servia they are invariably\ncalled green. Servians and Bulgarians cannot conceive a mountain that\nis not a wood or a wood that is not a mountain; with them the two\nwords mean one and the same thing. The charm and beauty of the\ncombination of hill and forest are often dwelt upon in the Balkan\nbrigand songs; outlaws and their poets have been among the keenest\nappreciators of nature. Who thinks of Robin Hood apart from the\ngreenwood tree? Who but has smelt the very fragrance of the woods as\nhe said over the lines?--\n\n  \"In somer when the shawes be sheyn\n    And leves be large and long,\n  Hit is full merry in feyre foreste\n    To here the foulys song.\"\n\nThe Sclav or semi-Sclav bandit has not got the high moral qualities of\nour \"most gentle theefe,\" but, like him, he has suffered the heat, the\ncold, the hunger, the fatigue of a life in the good greenwood,\nand, like him, he has tasted its joys. Take the ballad called the\n\"Wintering of the Heidukes.\" Three friends sit drinking together in\nthe mountains under the trees; they sip the ruddy wine, and discuss\nwhat they shall do in the coming winter, when the leaves have fallen\nand only the naked forest is left. Each decides where he will go,\nand the last one says: \"So soon as the sad winter is passed, when the\nforest is clad again in leaves and the earth in grass and flowers,\nwhen the birds sing in the bushes on the banks of the Save and the\nwolves are heard in the hills--then shall we meet as to-day.\" Spring\nreturns, the forest is decked again with leaves, the black earth with\nflowers and grass, the bird sings in the bush, the wolves howl on\nthe rocky heights; two of the friends meet at the trysting place--the\nthird comes not; he has been slain. This is only one _Pesma_ out of\na hundred in which the mountain background is faithfully sketched.\nSometimes the forest figures as a personage. The Balkan mountaineer\nmore than half believes that as he loves it, so does it love him. The\ninstinct which insists that \"love exempteth nothing loved from love\"\nhas been a great myth-germinator, and when myths die out, it still\nfinds some niche in the mind of man wherein to abide. It may seem\nfoolish when applied to inanimate objects; it must seem false in its\nhuman application: but reasoning will not kill it. Is there some truth\nunperceived behind the apparent fallacy? The Balkan brigand cares\nlittle for such speculations; all that he tells us is that when he\nspeaks to the greenwood, it most surely answers him in a soft low\nvoice. The Bulgarian \"Farewell of Liben the brave\" is a good specimen\nof the dialogues between the forest and its wild denizens. Standing\non the top of the Hodja Balkan, Liben cries aloud, \"Forest, O green\nforest, and ye cool waters! dost thou remember, O forest, how often\nI have roamed about thee with my following of young comrades bearing\naloft my red banner?\" Many are the mothers, the wives, and the little\norphans whom Liben has made desolate so that they curse him. Now must\nhe bid farewell to the mountain, for he is going home to his mother\nwho will affiance him to the daughter of the Pope Nicholas. \"The\nforest speaks to no one, yet to Liben she replies.\" Enough has he\nroamed with his braves; enough has he borne his red banner along the\nsummit of the old mountain, and under fresh and tufted shade, and\nover moist green moss. Many are the mothers, the wives, and the little\norphans, who curse the forest for his sake. Till now he has had the\nold mountain for mother; for love, the greenwood clothed in tufted\nfoliage and freshened by the cool breeze. The grass was his bed, the\nleaves of the trees his coverlet; his drink came from the pure brook,\nfor him the wood-birds sang. \"Rejoice,\" sang the wood-birds, \"for thee\nthe wood is gay; the mountain and the cool brook!\" But now Liben bids\nfarewell to the forest; he is going home that his mother may affiance\nand wed him to the daughter of the Pope Nicholas.\n\nSea-views of the sea, rare in poetry of any sort, can scarcely be said\nto exist in folk-poesy. Sailors' songs have generally not much to do\nwith the wonders of the deep; the larger part of them are known to be\npicked up on land, and the few exceptions to the rule are mostly kept\nfrom the ken of the outer and profane public. The Basque sailors have\ncertain songs of their own, but only a solitary fragment of one of\nthem has ever been set on record. Once when a Basque was asked to\nrepeat a song he had been heard singing, he quietly said that he only\ntaught it to those who sailed with him. The fragment just mentioned\nspeaks of the silver trumpet (the master's whistle?) sounding over\nthe waters at break of day, while the coast of Holland trembles in the\ndistance. The first glimpse of a level reach of land in the morning\nhaze could hardly be better described.\n\nThe sea impresses the dwellers on its shores chiefly by its depth and\nvastness. In folk-songs there is a frequent recurrence of phrases such\nas \"the waters of the sea are vast, you cannot discern the bottom\"\n(Basque); \"High is the starry sky, profound the abyss of ocean\"\n(Russian). The Greek calls the sea wicked, and watches the whitening\nwaves which roll over drowned sailors. For the Southern Sclav it is\nsimply a grey expanse. The Norseman calls it old, and blue--nature\nhaving for him one sole chord of colour--blue sea, white sands and\nsnows, green pines. With Italian folk-singers it is a pretty point of\ndispute whether the blue sea-and-sky colour is to be preferred to the\ncolour of the leaves and the grass. \"Can you wear a lovelier hue than\nazure?\" asks one; \"the waves of the sea are clothed therein and the\nheavens when they are clear.\" The answer is that if the sky is clad in\na blue garment, green is the vesture of the earth, \"E foro del verde\nnasse ogni bel frutto.\" The arguments of the rival partisans remind\none of an amusing scene in a play of Calderon's; one character is made\nto say, \"Green is the earth's primal hue, the many-coloured flowers\nare born out of a green cradle.\" \"In short,\" says another, \"it is a\nmere earth-tint, while heaven is dressed in blue.\" \"As to that,\" comes\nthe retort, \"it is all an azure fiction; far to be preferred is the\nveracious verdancy of the earth.\"\n\nThe Italian folk-poets' \"castle in the air\" is a castle in the sea.\nFrom Alp to AEtna the love-sick rhymers are fain to go and dwell with\ntheir heart's adoration \"in mezzo al mar.\" But though agreed on\nthe locality where they intend setting up in life, they differ\nconsiderably as to the manner of \"castle\" to be inhabited. The\nSicilian, who makes a point of wishing for something worth having\nwhile he is about it, will only be satisfied with a palace built of\npeacock's plumes, a stair of gold, and a balcony inlaid with gems. A\nmore modest minstrel, from the hither side of the straits of Messina,\ngives no thought at all to housekeeping; a little wave-lapped garden,\nfull of pretty flowers, is all his desire. The Italian folk-poet sets\nafloat an astonishing number of things for no particular reason; one\nhas planted a pear-tree, a second has heard a little wood-lark, a\nthird has seen a green laurel, a fourth has found a small altar \"in\nthe sea-midst,\" a fifth discovers his own name \"scritto all 'onne de\nlu mar.\"\n\nThe Greek lover has no wish to leave the mainland, but he is fond of\npicturing his beloved wandering by the shore at dawn to breathe the\nmorning air, or reclining on a little stone bench at the foot of a\nhill, in the silence of solitude and the calm of the sea. For the\nrest, he knows too well \"the wicked sea\" for it to suggest to him none\nbut pleasant images. If he is in despair, he likens himself to the\nwaves, which follow one another to their inevitable grave. If he grows\nweary of waiting, he exclaims: \"The sea darkens, the waves beat back\non the beach; ah! how long have I loved thee!\" One or two specimens\nhave been already given of this particular kind of song; the\nrecollection of a passing moment in nature is placed text-wise to a\ncry of human pain or love. A happy lover remembers in his transport\nthe glacier glistening in the sunshine; he who languishes from the\nsickness of hope deferred, sees an affinity to his own mood in the\nlowering storm.\n\nIn the South, light is loved for its own sake. \"Il lume e mezza\ncompagnia,\" runs a Tuscan proverb: \"Light is half company.\" In a\nmemorable passage, St Augustine unfolds and elaborates the same idea\nof the companionship of light. A Tuscan countryman vows that if his\nlove to fly from him becomes the light, he, to be near her, will\nbecome a butterfly. Perhaps so radiant an hyperbole would only have\noccurred to one who had grown up in the air of the Tuscan hills; the\nair to whose purity Michael Angelo ascribed all that his mind was\nworth. Anyway, a keen poetic sensibility is argued by the mere fact of\nthus joining, in a symbol of the indivisible, the least earth-clogged\nof sentient things with the most impersonal of natural phenomena. It\nis the more remarkable because, generally speaking, butterflies do\nnot attract the notice of the unlettered people, even as they did not\nattract the notice of the objective and practical Greeks. It may be\nthat were spirits to be seen flitting noiselessly about the haunts\nof men, they would, in time, be equally disregarded. To so few has it\nhappened to know a butterfly, to watch closely its living beauty,\nto feel day by day the light feet or fluttering wings upon the hands\nwhich minister to its unsubstantial wants. Butterflies, to most of us,\nare but ethereal strangers; so by the masses they are not valued--at\nleast, not in Europe. A tribe of West African negroes have this\nbeautiful saying: \"The Butterfly praises God within and without.\"\n\nThe folk-poet lives out of doors; he is acquainted with the home life\nof the sun and stars, and day-break is his daily luxury. The Eskimo\ntell a story of a stay-at-home man who dwelt in an island near the\ncoast of East Greenland. It was his chief joy to see the sun rising\nin the morning, out of the sea, and with that he was content. But when\nhis son had come to years of discretion, he persuaded his father to\nset out in a boat, so that he might see a little of the world. The\nman started from the island; no sooner, however, had he passed Cape\nFarewell than he saw the sun beginning to rise behind the land. It\nwas more than he could bear; and he set off at once for his home. Next\nmorning very early he went out of his tent; he did not come back. When\nhe was sought after, he was found quite dead. The joy of seeing the\nsun rising again out of the sea had killed him. Most likely the story\nis based on a real incident. The Aztec goes out upon his roof to see\nthe sunrise; it is his one religious observance. But of the cult of\nthe sun I must not begin to speak. It belongs to an immense subject\nthat cannot be touched here: the wide range of the unconscious\nappreciation of nature which was worship.\n\nThere is nothing more graceful in all folk-poesy than a little Czech\nstar-poem:--\n\n  Star, pale star,\n  Didst thou know love,\n  Hadst thou a heart, my golden star,\n  Thou wouldst weep sparks.\n\nFurther north men do not willingly stay out abroad at night, but those\nwhose calling obliges them to do so are looked upon as wise in strange\nlore. The first tidings of war coming reached the Esthonian shepherd\nboy, the keeper of the lambs, \"who knew the sun, and knew the moon,\nand knew the stars in the sky.\" In Neo-Sanskrit speaking Lithuania\nthere abound star-legends which differ from the southern tales of the\nsame order, by reason of the pagan good faith that clings to them,\nThe Italian is aware that he is romancing when he speaks of the moon\ntravelling through the night to meet the morning star, or when he\ndescribes her anger at the loss of one of her stars; the Lithuanian\nhas a suspicion that there may be a good deal of truth in his poets'\naccount of the sun's domestic arrangements--how the morning star\nlights the fire for him to get up by, and the evening star makes his\nbed. He will tell you that once there was a time when sun and moon\njourneyed together, but the moon fell in love with the morning star,\nwhich brought about sad mischief. \"The moon went with the sun in the\nearly spring; the sun got up early; the moon went away from him. The\nmoon walked alone, fell in love with the morning star. Perkun, greatly\nangered, stabbed her with a sword. 'Why wentest thou away from the\nsun? Why walk alone in the night? Why fall in love with the morning\nstar? Your heart is full of sorrow.'\" The Lithuanians have not wholly\nleft that stage in man's development when what is imagined seems\n_prima facie_ quite as likely to be real as what is seen. The\nsupernatural does not strike them as either mysterious or terrifying.\nIt is otherwise with the Teuton. His night phantasms treat of what is,\nto man, of all things the most genuinely alarming--his own shadow.\nGhosts, wild huntsmen, erl-kings take the place of an innocuous\nun-mortal race. No starry radiance can rob the night of its terrors.\n\"The stars shine in the sky, bright shine the rays of the moon, fast\nride the dead.\" Such is the wailing burden to the ballad which Burgher\nimitated in his _Lenore_. There is a wide gulf between this and the\ntender star-idylls of Lithuania, and a gulf still wider divides it\nfrom the neighbourly familiarity with which the southerner addresses\nthe heavenly bodies. We go from one world to another when we turn back\nto Italy and hear the country lads singing, \"La buona sera, O stella\nmattutina!\" \"Good evening to you, O matutinal star.\"\n\nThe West African negroes call the sky the king of sheds, and the sun\nthe king of torches; the twinkling stars are the little chickens, and\nthe meteor is the thief-star. \"When day dawns, you rejoice,\" say\nthe Yorubas; \"do you not know that the day of death is so much the\nnearer?\" The same tribe give this vivid description of a day-break\nscene: \"The trader betakes himself to his trade, the spinner takes his\ndistaff, the warrior takes his shield, the weaver bends over his sley,\nthe farmer awakes, he and his hoe-handle, the hunter awakes, with his\nquiver and bow.\" Thoughtless of toil, the Tuscan joyfully cries, \"Dawn\nis about to appear, bells chime, windows open, heaven and earth sing.\"\nThe Greek holds that he who has not journeyed with the moon by night,\nor at dawn with the dew, has not tasted the world. Folk-poets have\nwidely recognised the mysterious confusion between summer nights and\ndays. The dispute at Juliet's window is recalled by the Venetian's\nchiding of the \"Rondinella Traditora;\" by the Berry peasants' vexation\nat the \"vilaine alouette;\" by the reproach of the Navarrese lover,\n\"You say it is day, it is not yet midnight;\" and most of all by the\nServian dialogue: \"Dawn whitens, the cock crows: It is not the dawn,\nbut the moon. The cows low round the house: It is not the cows, it is\nthe call to prayer. The Turks call to the mosque: It is not the Turks,\nit is the wolves.\" The observation of the swallow's morning song is\nanother point at which the master poet and the obscure folk-singer\nmeet. This time both are natives of sunny lands; there is a clear\nreason why it should be so--in the north the swallow passes almost\nfor a dumb bird. Very rarely in England do we hear her notes, soft yet\npenetrating, like the high-pitched whisper of the AEolian harp. Some\nof us may, indeed, have first got acquainted with them in Dante's\nbeautiful lines:--\n\n  Nell' ora che comincia i tristi lai\n    La Rondinella presso alia mattina ...\n\nLittle suspecting that he is committing the sin of plagiarism,\nthe Greek begins one of his songs, \"In the hour when the swallows,\ntwittering, awake the dawn.\"\n\nThe ancient swallow myth does not seem to have anywhere crept into\nfolk-lore; nor is there much trace of the old Scandinavian delusion\nthat swallows spent the winter under the ice on lakes, or hanging up\nin caves like bunches of grapes. The swallow is taken simply as\nthe typical bird of passage, the spring-bringer, the messenger,\nthe traveller _outre mer_. She is the picked bird of countries, the\nAfrican explorer, the Indian pioneer. A Servian story reports of\nher in the latter capacity. The small-leafed Sweet Basil complains,\n\"Silent dew, why fallest thou not on me?\" \"For two mornings,\" answers\nthe dew, \"I fell on thee; this morning I amused myself by watching a\ngreat marvel. A vila (a mountain spirit) quarrelled with an eagle over\nyonder mountain. Said the vila, 'The mountain is mine.' 'No,' said the\neagle, 'it is mine.' The vila broke the eagle's wing, and the young\neaglets moaned bitterly, for great was their peril. Then a swallow\ncomforted them: 'Make no moan, young eaglets, I will carry you to the\nland of Ind, where the amaranth grows up to the horses' knees, where\nthe clover reaches their shoulders, where the sun never sets.'\" How,\nit may be asked, did the poet come by that notion of an Asiatic Eden?\nThe folk-singer seldom paints foreign scenery in these glowing tints.\nThere may be something of a south-ward longing in the boast--\n\n  I'll show ye how the lilies grow\n    On the banks o' Italie.\n\nBut this is cold and colourless beside the empire of the unsetting\nsun.\n\nNext to the swallow, the grey gull has the reputation of being the\ngreatest traveller. Till lately the women of Croisic met on Assumption\nDay and sang a song to the gulls, imploring them to bring back their\nhusbands and their lovers who were out at sea. Larks are often chosen\nas letter-carriers for short distances. The Greek knows that it is\nspring when pair by pair the turtle-doves swoop down to the brooks. He\nis an accurate observer; in April or May any retired English pool will\nbe found flecked over with the down of the wood-pigeons that come\nto drink and bathe in it. The cooing of doves is by general consent\nassociated with constancy and requited love. It is not always,\nhowever, that nations are agreed as to the sense of a bird's song. The\n\"merrie cuckoo\" is supposed by the Sclavs to be rehearsing an endless\ndirge for a murdered brother. A Czech poet lays down yet another cause\nfor its conjectured melancholy: \"Perched upon an oak tree, a cuckoo\nweeps because it is not always spring. How could the rye ripen in the\nfields if it were always spring? How could the apples ripen in the\norchard if it were always summer? How could the corn harden in the\nrick if it were always autumn?\" In spite of the sagacious content\nshown by these inquiries, it is probable that the sadness which the\nSclav attributes to the cuckoo-cry is but an echo of the sadness, deep\nand wide, of his own race.\n\nOf the nightingale the Tuscan sings, in the spirit of one greater than\nhe,--\n\n  Vedete la quel rusignol che canta\n  Col suo bel canto lamentar si vuole,--\n\nwhich is not, by the by, his only Miltonic inspiration; there is a\nrustling of Vallombrosian leaves through the couplet, composed perhaps\nin Vallombrosia:\n\n  E quante primavera foglie adorna\n  Che si vaga e gentile a noi ritorna.\n\nThe Bulgarian sees a mountain _trembling_ to the song of three\nnightingales. Like his Servian neighbours, he must always have a\nstory, and here is his nightingale story. Marika went into the garden;\nshe passed the pomegranate-tree and the apple-tree, and sat her down\nunder the red rose-tree to embroider a white handkerchief. In the\nrose-tree was a nightingale, and the nightingale said: \"Let us sing,\nMarika; if you sing better than I, you shall cut off my wings at the\nshoulders and my feet at the knee; if I sing better than you, I will\ncut off your hair at the roots.\" They sang for two days, for three\ndays; Marika sang the best. Then the nightingale pleaded, \"Marika,\nfair young girl, do not cut off my feet, let me keep my wings, for I\nhave three little nightingales to rear, and of one of them I will make\nyou a gift.\" \"Nightingale, sweet singer,\" said Marika, \"I will give\nthee grace of thy wings, and even of thy feet; go, tend thy little\nones, make me a gift of one to lull me to sleep, and of one to awake\nme.\"\n\nWe may take leave of bird-lays with the pretty old Bourbonnaise\n_chanson_:--\n\n  Derrier' chez nous, il y a-t-un vert bocage,\n    Le rossignol y chant' tous les jours;\n  La il y dit en son charmant langage:\n    Les amoreux sont malheureux toujours!\n\nFlowers, the green leaves and the grass, are suggestive of two kinds\nof pathos. The individual flower, the grass or leaf of any one day\nor spring-tide, becomes the type of the transitoriness of beauty and\nyouth and life. \"Sing whilst ye are young and fair, soon you will be\nslighted, as are sere lilies,\" is the song even of happy Tuscany. To\nthe Sclav it seems a question whether it be worth while that there\nshould be any flowers or morning gladness, since they must be gone\nso soon. \"O my garden,\" sings the Ruthenian, \"O my little garden, my\ngarden and my green vine, why bloomest thou in the morning? Hardly\nbloomed, thou art withered, and the earth is strewn with thy leaves.\"\nThe other kind of pathos springs from a deeper well. Man passes by,\neach one hurries to his tragedy; Nature smiles tranquilly on. This\nmoving force of contrast was known to Lywarch Hen, and to those Keltic\nbards who dived so deep into Nature's secrets that scarcely a\ngreater depth has been fathomed by any after-comers. It was perceived\ninvoluntarily by the English ballad-singers, who strung a burden of\n\"Fine flowers\" upon a tale of infanticide, and bade blackbird and\nmavis sing their sweetest between a murder and an execution. And it is\nthis that gives its key-note to an Armenian popular song of singular\npower. A bishop tells how he has made himself a vineyard; he has\nbrought stones from the valleys and raised a wall around it; he has\nplanted young vines and plentifully has he watered their roots. Every\nmorning the nightingale sings sweetly to the rose. Every morning\nGabriel says to his soul: \"Rise and come forth from this vineyard,\nfrom this newly-built vineyard.\" He has not eaten the fruit of the\nvine; he has built a wine-vat, but the wine he has not tasted; he has\nbrought cool streams from the hills, but he has not drunk the water\nthereof; he has planted red and white roses, but he has not smelt\ntheir fragrance. The turtle-dove sings to the birds, and the spring is\ncome. Gabriel calls to his soul, the light of his eyes grows dim; \"It\nis time I leave my vineyard, my beautiful vineyard.\" There is hardly\nanother poem treating of death which is so un-illuminated by one ray\nfrom a future dawn.\n\nIn the great mass of folk-songs flowers are dealt with simply as the\naccessories to all beautiful things. The folk-poet learns from them\nhis alphabet of beauty. Go into any English cornfield after harvest;\nwhilst the elder children glean wheat ears, the children of two\nand three years glean small yellow hearts-eases, vervaine, and blue\nscabious. They are as surely learning to distinguish the Beautiful\nas the student in the courts of the Vatican. Through life, when these\nchildren think of a beautiful thing, the thought of a flower will not\nbe far off. Religion and love, after all the two chief embellishments\nof the life of the poor, have been hung about with flowers from the\npast of Persephone and Freya till to-day. Even in England the common\npeople are glad if they can find a lily of the valley to carry to\nchurch at Whitsuntide, and the first sign that a country girl has\ngot a sweetheart is often to be read in the transformation of the\ngarden-plot before her door. In Italy you will not walk far among the\nvineyards and maize-fields without coming upon a shrine which bears\ntraces of floral decoration. Some Italian villages and country towns\nhave their special flower festival, or _Infiorata_; Genzano, for\ninstance, where, on the eighth day after Corpus Domini, innumerable\nflowers are stripped of their petals, which are sorted out according\nto colour and then arranged in patterns on the way to the church,\nthe magnificence of the effect going far to make one condone the\nheartlessness of immolating so many victims to achieve an hour's\ntriumph. A charge of stupid indifference to beauty has been brought\nagainst the Italian peasant--it would seem partly on the score that he\nhas been known to root up his anemones in order to put a stop to the\ninroads of foreign marauders. There are certain persons, law-abiding\nin the land which gave them birth, who when abroad, adopt the ethics\nof our tribal ancestors. A piece of ground, a tree, or a plant not\nenclosed by a wall, is turned by this strange public to its own uses.\nA walnut tree by the wayside has a stick thrown among its branches\nto fetch down the walnuts. The peasant does what he can to protect\nhimself. He observes that flowers attract trespassers, and so he roots\nup the flowers. There are Italian folk-songs which show a delight in\nflowers not to be surpassed anywhere. Flower-loving beyond all the\nrest are the Tuscan poets, whose love-lyrics have been truly described\nas \"tutti seminati di fiori\"--all sown with lilies, clove pinks, and\njessamine. The fact fits in pleasantly with the legend of the first\nFlorentines, who are said to have called their city after \"the great\nbasket of flowers\" in which it was built. It fits in, too, with the\nsentiment attached even now to the very name of Florence. The old\n_Floraja_ in the overgrown straw hat at the railway station can\nreckon on something more abiding than her long-lost charms to find her\npatrons; and it is curious to note how few of the passengers reject\nthe proffered emblems of the flower town, or fail to earn the parting\nwish \"Felice ritorno!\"\n\nOne point may be granted; in Italy and elsewhere the common people do\nnot highly or permanently value scentless flowers. A flower without\nfragrance is to them almost a dead flower. I put the question to a\ntroop of English children coming from a wood laden with spoils, \"What\nmakes you like primroses?\" \"The scent of them,\" was the answer. A\nlittle further along the lane came another troop, and the question was\nrepeated. This time the answer was, \"Because they smell so nice.\"\nNo flower has been more widely reverenced than the unassuming sweet\nbasil, the _Basilica odorato_ of Sicilian songs, the Tulasi plant of\nIndia, where it is well-nigh worshipped in the house of every pious\nHindu. The scale is graduated thus: the flower which has no smell is\nplucked in play, but left remorselessly to wither as children leave\ntheir daisy chains; the flower which has a purely sweet and fresh\nperfume is arranged in nosegays, set in water, praised and enjoyed\nfor the day; the flower which has a scent of spice and incense and\naromatic gums bears off honours scarcely less than divine.\n\nThe folk-poet sings because heaven has given him a sweet voice and a\nfair mistress; because the earth brings forth her increase and the sun\nshines, and the spring comes back, and rest at noontide and at evening\nis lovely, and work in the oil-mill and in the vineyard is lovely too:\nhe sings to embellish his labour and to enhance his repose. He lives\non the shield of Achilles, singing, accompanied by a viol, to the\ngrape-pickers; he is crowned with flowers in the golden age of\nLucretius as he raises his sweet song at the _festa_. We have seen a\nlittle of what he says about Nature, but, in truth, he is still\nher interpreter when he says nothing. All folk-poesy is sung and\nfolk-songs are as much one of Nature's voices as the song of the\nbirds, the song of the brooks, the song of the wind in the pine-tops.\nSo it is likewise with the rude musical instruments which the\nexigencies of his life have taught the peasant how to make; they utter\ntones more closely in harmony with nature than those of the finest\nStradivarius. The Greeks were right when they made Pan with his\nreed-pipe rather than Apollo with his lyre the typical Nature-god.\nAnyone to whom it has chanced to hear a folk-song sung in its own home\nwill understand what is meant. You may travel a good deal and not have\nthat chance. The songs, the customs, the traditions of the people form\nan arcanum of which they are not always ready to lift the veil. To\nthose, of course, whose lives are cast among a people that still\nsings, the opportunity comes oftener. But if the song be sung\nconsciously for your pleasure its soul will hardly remain in it. I\nshall always vividly remember two occasions of hearing a folk-song\nsung. Once, long ago, on the Bidassoa. The day was closing in; the\nbell was tolling in the little chapel on the heathery mountain-side,\nwhere mass is said for the peace of the brave men who fell there.\nFontarabia stood bathed in orange light. It was low water, and the\nboat got almost stranded; then the boatmen, an older and a younger\nman, both built like athletes, began to sing in low, wild snatches\nfor the tide. Once, not very long since, at the marble quarry of Sant'\nAmbrogio. Here also it was towards evening and in the autumn. The\nvintage was half over; all day the sweet \"Prenda! Prenda!\" of the\ngrape-gatherers had invited the stranger to share in its purple\nmagnificence. The blue of the more distant Veronese hills deepened\nagainst a coralline sky; not a dark thing was in sight except here or\nthere the silhouette of a cypress. Only a few workmen were employed in\nthe quarry; one, a tall, slight lad, sang in the intervals from labour\nan air full of passion and tenderness. The marble amphitheatre\ngave sonority to his high voice. Each time Nature would have seemed\nincomplete had it lacked the human song.\n\n\n\n\nARMENIAN FOLK-SONGS.\n\n\nObscure in their origin, and for the most part having at first had no\nsuch auxiliary as written record to aid their preservation, the single\nfact of the existence of folk-songs may in general suffice to proclaim\nthem the true articulate voice of some sentiment or feeling, common to\nthe large bulk of the people whence they emanate. It is plain that the\nfittest only can survive--only such as are truly germane to those who\nsay or sing them. A herdsman or tiller of the soil strings together\na few verses embodying some simple thought which came into his head\nwhilst he looked at the green fields or the blue skies, or it may\nbe as he acted in a humble way as village poet-laureate. One or two\nfriends get them by heart, and possibly sing them at the fair in\nthe next hamlet: if they hit, others catch them up, and so the song\ntravels for miles and miles, and may live out generations. If not, the\neffusion of our poetical cowherd dies away quite silently--not much to\nhis distress, for had its fate been more propitious its author would\nprobably have been very little the wiser. One celebrated poet, and I\nthink but one, has in our own times begun his career in like manner\nwith the unknown folk-singer. The songs of Sandor Petoefi were popular\nover the breadth of the Hungarian Puszta before ever they appeared in\nprint; and those who know him, know how faithfully he breathes forth\nthe soul of the Magyar race. In a certain sense it is true that every\nreal poet is the spokesman of his people. No two works, for instance,\nare so characteristic of their respective countries as the _Divina\nCommedia_ and _Faust_. Still, the hands of genius idealise what they\ntouch; the great poet personifies rather than reflects his people,\nand if he serves them as representative, it is in an august, imperial\nfashion within the Senate House of Fame, outside whose doors the\nmultitude hustles and seethes. When we want to see this multitude as\nin a mirror, to judge its common instincts and impulses that go very\nfar to cast the nation in the type which makes it what it is, it is a\nsafer and surer plan to search out its own spontaneous and untutored\nsongs than to consult the master work attached to immortal names.\n\nHow far the individuality of a race is decided or modified by\nthe natural phenomena in which it is placed is a nice point for\ndiscussion, and one not to be disposed of by off-hand generalities.\nIn what consists the sympathetic link, sometimes weak and scarcely\nperceptible, at others visibly strong, between man and nature?\nWhy does the emigrated mountaineer, settled in comfort, ease,\nand prosperity in some great metropolis, wake up one day with the\nknowledge that he must begone to the wooden chalet with the threat of\nthe avalanche above and the menace of the flood below--or he must die?\nIs it force of early association, habit, or fancy? Why is the wearied\ntown-tied brain-worker sensible of a nostalgia hardly less poignant\nwhen he calls to mind how the fires of day kindled across some scene\nof snow or sea with which his eyes were once familiar? Is it nothing\nmore than the return of a long ago experienced admiration? I think\nthat neither physicist nor psychologist--and both have a right to be\nheard in the matter--would answer that the cause of these sensations\nwas to be thus shortly defined. Again ask the artist what the Athenian\nowed to the purity and proportion of the lines of Grecian landscape,\nwhat the Italian stole from the glow and glory of meridional light\nand colour--what the Teuton learnt from the ascending spires of Alpine\nice? Was it that they saw and copied? Or rather, that Nature's spirit,\nvibrating through the pulses of their being, moulded into form the\nhalf-divine visions of master-sculptor, painter, architect?\n\nIt does not, however, require to go deeper than the surface of\nthings in order to understand that a peoples' songs must be largely\ninfluenced by the accidents of natural phenomena, and especially where\nclimate and physical conformation are such as must perforce stir and\nstimulate the imaginative faculties of the masses. We have an instance\nto the point in the ballads of the \"mountainous island\" bounded by\nseas and plains, which the natives call Hayasdan and we Armenia. The\nwondering emotion aroused by a first descent from the Alps into Italy\nis well known; to not a few of the mightiest of northern poets this\njourney has acted like a charm, a revelation, an awakening to\nfuller consciousness. In Armenia, the incantation of a like natural\nantithesis is worked by the advent of its every returning spring: a\nsluggard of a season that sleeps on soundly till near midsummer, but\ncomes forth at last fully clothed in the gorgeous raiment of a king.\nIn days gone by the Armenian spring was dedicated to the goddess\nAnahid, and as it broke over the land the whole people joined in\njoyful celebration of the feast of Varthavar or \"Rose-blossoms,\"\nwhich since Christian times has been transformed into the three days'\nfestival of the Transfiguration. Beautiful is the face of the country\nwhen the tardy sun begins to make up for lost time, as though his very\nlife depended on it; shooting down his beams with fiery force through\nthe rarefied ether, melting away the snows, and ripening all at once\nthe grain and grapes, the wild fig, apricot and olive, mulberry and\npomegranate. What wonder that the Armenian loves the revivifying lamp\nof day, that he turns the dying man towards it, and will not willingly\ncommit his dead to the earth if some bright rays do not fall into the\nopen grave! At the sun's reveille there is a general resurrection of\nall the buried winter population--women and children, cows and sheep,\npink-eyed lemmings, black-eyed caraguz, and little kangaroo-shaped\njerboas. Out, too, from their winter lairs come wolf and bear, hyena\nand tiger, leopard and wild boar. The stork returns to his nest on the\nbroad chimney-pot, and this is what the peasant tells him of all that\nhas happened in his absence:\n\n  Welcome, Stork!\n    Thou Stork, welcome;\n    Thou hast brought us the sign of spring,\n    Thou hast made our heart gay.\n  Descend, O Stork!\n    Descend, O Stork, upon our roof,\n    Make thy nest upon our ash-tree.\n    I will tell thee my thousand sorrows,\n    The sorrows of my heart, the thousand sorrows,\n  Stork, when thou didst go away,\n    When thou didst go away from our tree,\n    Withering winds did blow,\n    They dried up our smiling flowers.\n  The brilliant sky was obscured,\n    That brilliant sky was cloudy:\n    From above they were breaking the snow in pieces:\n    Winter approached, the destroyer of flowers.\n  Beginning from the rock of Varac,\n  Beginning from that rock of Varac,\n    The snow descended and covered all;\n    In our green meadow it was cold.\n  Stork, our little garden,\n    Our little garden was surrounded with snow;\n    Our green rose trees\n    Withered with the snow and the cold.\n\nBut now the rose trees in the garden are green again, and out abroad\nwild flowers enamel the earth. Down pour the torrents of melted snow\noff Mount Ararat, down crash the avalanches of ice and stones\nlet loose by the sun's might; wherever an inch of soil or rock is\nuncovered it becomes a carpet of blossom. High up, even to 13,000 feet\nabove the sea-level, the deep violet aster, the saxifrage, and crocus,\nand ranunculus, and all our old Alpine acquaintances, form a dainty\nmorsel for the teeth, or a carpet for the foot, of swift capricorn\nor not less agile wild sheep. A little lower, amidst patches of yet\nfrozen snow, hyacinths scent the air, yellow squills and blue anemones\npeep out, clumps of golden iris cluster between the rocks. There, too,\nis the \"Fountain's Blood,\" or \"Blood of the Seven Brothers,\" as the\nTurk would say, with its crimson, leafless stalk and lily-like bloom,\nthe reddest of all red flowers. Upon the trees comes the sweet white\n_kasbe_, a kind of manna much relished by the inhabitants. Amongst the\ngrass grow the Stars of Bethlehem, to remind us, as tradition has it,\nthat hard by on Ararat--beyond question the great centre of Chaldean\nStar-worship--the wise men were appointed to watch for the appearance\nof a sign in the heavens, and that thence they started in quest of\nthe place \"where the young child lay.\" Tulips also abound; if we\nmay credit the legend, they had their origin in the Armenian town\nof Erzeroom, springing from the life-blood of Ferdad when he threw\nhimself from the rocks in despair at a false alarm of the death of his\nbeloved Shireen.\n\nErzeroom is by common consent in these parts the very site of the\nGarden of Eden. For many centuries, affirms the Moslem, the flowers\nof Paradise might yet be seen blossoming round the source of the\nEuphrates not far from the town. But, alas! when the great Persian\nKing Khosref Purveez, the rival of the above-mentioned Ferdad, was\nencamped in that neighbourhood, he was rash enough to spurn a message\nfrom the young Prophet Mohammed, offering him protection if he\nwould embrace the faith of Islam. What booted the protection of an\ninsignificant sectary to him? thought the Shah-in-Shah, and tossed the\nletter into the Euphrates. But Nature, horrified at the sacrilegious\ndeed, dried up her flowers and fruits, and even parched the sources\nof the river itself; the last relic of Eden became a waste. There is a\nplaintive Armenian elegy composed in the person of Adam sitting at\nthe gate of Paradise, and beholding Cherubim and Seraphim entering the\nGarden of which he once was king, \"yea, like unto a powerful king!\"\nThe poet puts into Adam's mouth a new line of defence; he did not eat\nof the fruit, he says, until after he had witnessed its fatal effects\nupon Eve, when, seeing her despoiled of all her glory, he was touched\nwith pity, and tasted the immortal fruit in the hope that the Creator\ncontemplating them both in the same wretched plight might with\npaternal love take compassion on both. But vain was the hope; \"the\nLord cursed the serpent and Eve, and I was enslaved between them.\" \"O\nSeraphim!\" cries the exiled father of mankind:\n\n    When ye enter Eden, shut not the gate of Paradise; place me\n    standing at the gate; I will look in a moment, and then bring\n    me back.\n\n    Ah! I remember ye, O flowers and sweet-swelling fountains. Ah!\n    I remember ye O birds, sweet-singing--and ye, O beasts:\n\n    Ye who enjoy Paradise, come and weep over your king; ye who\n    are in Paradise planted by God, elected from the earth of\n    every kind and sort.\n\nHigh above the hardiest saxifrage tower the three thousand feet of\neverlasting snows that crown Mount Ararat. The Armenians call it\nMassis or \"Mother of the World,\" and old geographers held that it was\nthe centre of the earth, an hypothesis supported by various ingenious\ncalculations. The Persians have their own set of legends about it;\nthey say that Ararat was the cradle of the human race, and that at one\ntime it afforded pasture up to the apex of its dome; but upon man's\nexpulsion from Eden, Ahriman the serpent doomed the whole country to\na ten months' winter. As to the semi-scriptural traditions gathered\nround the mountain, there is no end to them. \"And the ark rested\nin the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the\nmountains of Ararat,\" so says the Bible, and it is an article of faith\nwith the Armenian peasant that it is still somewhere up at the top,\nonly not visible. He is extremely loth to believe that anybody has\nactually attained the summit. Parrot's famous ascent was long regarded\nas the merest fable. At the foot of Ararat was a village named\nArgoory, or \"he planted the vine,\" where Noah's vineyard is pointed\nout to this day, though the village itself was destroyed in 1840, when\nthe mountain woke up from its long slumbers and rolled down its side a\nstream of boiling lava; but we are told that, owing to the sins of the\nworld, the vines no longer bear fruit. Close at hand is Manard, \"the\nmother lies here,\" alluding to the burial-place of Noah's wife, and\nyonder is Eravan or \"Visible,\" the first dry land which Noah perceived\nas the waters receded. Armenian choniclers relate that when after\nleaving the ark the descendants of Noah dispersed to different\nquarters, one amongst them, by name Haig, the great-grandson of\nJaphet, settled with his family in Mesopotamia, where he probably took\npart in the building of the Tower of Babel. Later, however, upon Belus\nacquiring dominion over the land, Haig found his rule so irksome to\nhimself and his clan that they migrated back in a body of 300 persons\nto Armenia, much to the displeasure of Belus, who summoned them to\nreturn, and when they refused, despatched a large army to coerce them\ninto obedience. Haig collected his men on the shores of Van, and thus\nsagaciously addressed them:\n\n    When we meet with the army of Belus, let us attempt to draw\n    near where he lies surrounded by his warriors; either we shall\n    be killed, and our camp equipments and baggage will fall into\n    his hands, or, making a show of the strength of our arm, we\n    shall defeat his army, and victory will be ours.\n\nThese tactics proved completely successful, and Belus fell mortally\nwounded by an arrow from Haig's bow. Having in this way disposed of\nhis enemies, the patriarch was able before he died to consolidate\nHayasdan into a goodly kingdom, which he left to the authority of his\nson Armenag.\n\nAfter the reign of Haig the thread of Armenian annals continues\nwithout break or hitch; it must be admitted that no people, not even\nthe Jews, boast a history which \"begins with the beginning\" in a more\nthorough way, nor does the work of any chronicler proceed in a more\nmethodical and circumstantial manner than that of Moses of Khoren, the\nHerodotus of Armenia. As is well known, Moses, writing in the fifth\ncentury, founded his chronicle upon a work undertaken about five\nhundred years before by one Marabas Cattina, a Syrian, at the request\nof the great Armenian monarch Vagshaishag. Marabas stated that his\nrecord was based upon a manuscript he had discovered in the archives\nof Nineveh which bore the indorsement, \"This book, containing the\nannals of ancient history, was translated from the Chaldean into\nGreek, by order of Alexander the Great.\" Whatever may be the precise\namount of credence to which the Chronicle of Moses is entitled,\nall will agree that it narrates the story of a high-spirited and\nintelligent people whom the alternating domination of Greek and\nPersian could not cower into relinquishing the substance of their\nliberties, and whose efforts, in the main successful, on behalf of\ntheir cherished independence, were never more vigorous than at times\nwhen their triumph seemed farthest off. For nearly a thousand years\nafter the date of Moses of Khoren, his people maintained their\nautonomy, and whether we look before or after the flight of the last\nArmenian king before the soldiers of the Crescent, we must acknowledge\nthat few nations have fought more valiantly for their political\nrights, whilst yet fewer have suffered more severely for their\nfidelity to their faith. It is the pride of the Armenians that theirs\nwas the first country which adopted the Christian religion; it may\nwell be their pride also, that they kept their Christianity in\nthe teeth of persecutions which can only find a parallel in those\nundergone by the Hebrew race.\n\nArmenia is naturally rich in early Christian legends, of which the\nmost curious is perhaps that of the correspondence alleged to have\noccurred between Our Lord and Abgar, king of Hayasdan. The latter,\nit is said, having sent messengers to transact some business with the\nRoman generals quartered in Palestine, received on their return such\naccounts of the miracles performed by Jesus of Nazareth as convinced\nhim either that Christ was God come down upon the earth, or that\nhe was the son of God. Suffering from a grave malady, and hearing,\nmoreover, that the Jews had set their hearts on doing despite to the\nProphet who had risen in their midst, Abgar wrote a letter beseeching\nChrist to come to his capital and cure him of his sickness. \"My city\nis indeed small,\" this letter naively concludes, \"but it is sufficient\nto contain us both.\" The king also sent a painter to Jerusalem, so\nthat if Our Lord could not come to Edessa he might at least possess\nhis portrait. The painter was one day endeavouring to fulfil his\nmission when he was observed by Christ, who passing a handkerchief\nover his face, gave it to the Armenian impressed with the likeness of\nhis features. The response to Abgar's letter was written by St Thomas,\nwho said, on behalf of his Divine Master, that his work lay elsewhere\nthan in Armenia, but that after his Ascension he would send an Apostle\nto enlighten the people of that country. This correspondence, though\nnow not accepted as authentic out of Armenia, was mentioned by some\nof the earliest Church historians, and it is asserted that one of the\nletters has been found written on papyrus in an Egyptian tomb.\n\nChristianity seems to have made some way in Armenia in the second\ncentury, but to what extent is unknown. What is certain is, that\nin the third century, St Gregory the Illuminator, after having been\ntortured in twelve different ways by King Tiridates for refusing\nto worship the goddess Anahid, and kept at the bottom of a well for\nfourteen years, was taken out of it in consequence of a vision of the\nking's sister, and converted that monarch and all his subjects along\nwith him. St Gregory is held in boundless reverence by the Armenians;\nhe is almost looked upon as a divine viceroy, as will be seen from the\nfollowing canzonette which Armenian children are taught to sing:\n\n  The light appears, the light appears!\n    The light is good:\n    The sparrow is on the tree,\n    The hen is on the perch,\n    The sleep of lazy men is a year,\n    Workman, rise and begin thy work!\n    The gates of heaven are opened,\n    The throne of gold is erected,\n    Christ is sitting on it;\n    The Illuminator is standing,\n    He has taken the golden pen,\n    He has written great and small.\n    Sinners are weeping,\n    The just are rejoicing.\n\nThe poet of the people nowhere occupies himself with casting about for\na fine subject; he writes of what he feels and of what he sees.\nThe Armenian peasant sees the snow in winter; in summer he sees\nthe flowers and the birds--only birds and flowers are to him the\npleasanter sight, so he sings more about them. He rarely composes\nany verse without a flower or a bird being mentioned in it; all his\nsimiles are ornithological or botanical, and by them he expresses\nthe tenderest emotions of his heart. There is a pathos, a simplicity\nreally exquisite in the conception of some of these little\nbird-and-flower pieces, as, for example, in the subjoined \"Lament of a\nMother\" over her dead babe:\n\n  I gaze and weep, mother of my boy,\n    I say alas and woe is me wretched!\n    What will become of wretched me,\n    I have seen my golden son dead!\n  They seized that fragrant rose\n    Of my breast, and my soul fainted away;\n    They let my beautiful golden dove\n    Fly away, and my heart was wounded.\n  That falcon Death seized\n    My dear and sweet-voiced turtle dove and wounded me.\n    They took my sweet-toned little lark\n    And flew away through the skies!\n  Before my eyes they sent the hail\n    On my flowering green pomegranate,\n    My rosy apple on the tree,\n    Which gave fragrance among the leaves.\n  They shook my flourishing beautiful almond tree,\n    And left me without fruit;\n    Beating it they threw it on the ground\n    And trod it under foot into the earth of the grave.\n  What will become of wretched me!\n    Many sorrows surrounded me.\n    O, my God, receive the soul of my little one\n    And place him at rest in the bright heaven!\n\nThe birds of Armenia are countless in their number and variety, from\nvulture to wren; there are so many of them that a man (it is said\npoetically) may ride for miles and miles and never see the ground,\nwhich they entirely cover, except over the small space from which\nthey fly up with a deafening whizz to make a passage for his horse. At\ntimes the plains have the appearance of being dyed rose-colour through\nthe swarms of the gorgeous red goose which congregate upon them,\nwhilst here and there a whitish spot is formed by a troop of his\ngrey-coated relatives. It seems that the Armenian has found out why\nit was the wild goose and the tame one separated from each other. Once\nupon a time, when all were wild and free, one goose said to another on\nthe eve of a journey, \"Mind you are ready, my friend, for, Inshallah\n(please God), I set out to-morrow morning.\" \"And so will I,\" he\nprofanely replied, \"whether it pleases God or not.\" Sure enough next\nmorning both geese were up betimes, and the religious one spread out\nhis wings and sailed off lightly towards the distant land. But, lo!\nwhen the impious goose tried to do likewise, he flapped and flapped\nand could not stir from the ground. So a countryman caught him, and he\nand his children for ever fell into slavery.\n\nThe partridge is a great favourite of the Armenian, who does not tire\nof inventing lyrics in its honour. Here is a specimen:\n\n  The sun beats from the mountain's top,\n    Pretty, pretty:\n    The partridge comes from her nest;\n    She was saluted by the flowers,\n    She flew and came from the mountain's top.\n      Ah! pretty, pretty,\n      Ah! dear little partridge!\n\n  When I hear the voice of the partridge\n    I break my fast on the house-top:\n    The partridge comes chirping\n    And swinging from the mountain's side.\n      Ah! pretty, pretty,\n      Ah! dear little partridge!\n\n  Thy nest is enamelled with flowers,\n    With basilico, narcissus, and water-lily:\n    Thy place is full of dew,\n    Thou delightest in the fragrant odour.\n      Ah! pretty, pretty,\n      Ah! dear little partridge!\n\n  Thy feathers are soft,\n    Thy neck is long, thy beak little,\n    The colour of thy wing is variegated:\n    Thou art sweeter than the dove.\n      Ah! pretty, pretty,\n      Ah! dear little partridge!\n\n  When the little partridge descends from the tree,\n    And with his sweet voice chirps,\n    He cheers all the world,\n    He draws the heart from the sea of blood.\n      Ah! pretty, pretty,\n      Ah! dear little partridge.\n\n  All the birds call thee blessed,\n    They come with thee in flocks,\n    They come around thee chirping:\n    In truth there is not one like thee.\n      Ah! pretty, pretty,\n      Ah! beautiful little partridge!\n\nAnother song gives the piteous plaint of an unhappy partridge who was\nsnared and eaten. \"Like St Gregory, they let me down into a deep\nwell; then they took me up and sat round a table, and they cut me into\nlittle pieces, like St James the Intercised.\" The crane, who, with\nthe stork, brings the promise of summer on his wing, receives a warm\nwelcome, and when the Armenian sees a crane in some foreign country he\nwill say to him:--\n\n    Crane, whence dost thou come? I am the servant of thy voice.\n    Crane, hast thou not news from our country? Hasten not to thy\n    flock; thou wilt arrive soon enough! Crane, hast thou not news\n    from our country?\n\n    I have left my possessions and vineyard and come hither. How\n    often do I sigh; it seems that my soul is taken from me.\n    Crane, stay a little, thy voice is in my soul. Crane, hast\n    thou not news from our country? My God, I ask of thee grace\n    and favour, the heart of the pilgrim is wounded, his lungs are\n    consumed; the bread he eats is bitter, the water he drinks is\n    tasteless. Crane, hast thou not news from our country?\n\n    Thou comest from Bagdad, and goest to the frontiers. I will\n    write a little letter and give it to thee. God will be the\n    witness over thee; thou wilt carry it and give it to my dear\n    ones.\n\n    I have put in my letter that I am here, that I have never even\n    for a single day been happy. O, my dear ones, I am always\n    anxious for you! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?\n\n    The autumn is near, and thou art ready to go: thou hast\n    joined a large flock: thou hast not answered me, and thou art\n    flown! Crane, go from our country and fly far away!\n\nThe nameless author of these lines has had Dante's thought:\n\n  Tu proverai si come sa di sale\n    Lo pane altrui ...\n\nIt is strange that the Armenians should be at once one of the most\nscattered peoples on the face of the earth, and one of the most\npassionately devoted to their fatherland.\n\nIt should not be forgotten, when reading these Armenian bird-lays,\nthat an old belief yet survives in that country that the souls of the\nblessed dead fly down from heaven, in the shape of beautiful birds,\nand perching in the branches of the trees, look fondly at their dear\nones on earth as they pass beneath. When the peasant sees the birds\nfluttering above overhead in the wood he will on no account molest\nthem, but says to his boy, \"That is your dear mother, your little\nbrother, your sister--be a good child, or it will fly away and never\nlook at you again with its sweet little eyes.\"\n\nThe clear cool streams and vast treacherous salt lakes of Armenia\nare not without their laureates. Thus sings the bard of a mountain\nrivulet:\n\n  \"Down from yon distant mountain\n    The water flows through the village, Ha!\n    A dark boy comes forth,\n    And washing his hands and face,\n    Washing, yes washing,\n    And turning to the water, asked, Ha!\n    Water, from what mountain dost thou come?\n    O my cool and sweet water! Ha!\n    I came from that mountain,\n    Where the old and new snow lie one on the other.\n  Water, to what river dost thou go?\n    O my cool and sweet water! Ha!\n  I go to that river\n    Where the bunches of violets abound. Ha!\n  Water, to what vineyard dost thou go?\n    O my cool and sweet water! Ha!\n  I go to that vineyard\n    Where the vine-dresser is within! Ha!\n  Water, what plant dost thou water?\n    O my cool and sweet water! Ha!\n  I water that plant\n    Whose roots give food to the lamb,\n    The roots give food to the lamb,\n    Where there are the apple tree and the anemone.\n  Water, to what garden dost thou go?\n    O my cool and sweet water! Ha!\n  I go into that garden\n    Where there is the sweet song of the nightingale! Ha!\n  Water, into what fountain dost thou go?\n    O my cool and sweet little water!\n  I go to that fountain\n    Where thy love comes and drinks.\n    I go to meet her and kiss her chin,\n    And satiate myself with her love.\n\nThe dwellers on the shores of Van--the largest lake in Armenia, which\nis situated between 5000 and 6000 feet above the sea, and covers more\nthan 400 square miles--are celebrated for possessing the poetic gift\nin a pre-eminent degree. Their district is fertile and picturesque,\nso picturesque that when Semiramis passed that way she employed 12,000\nworkmen and 600 architects to build her a city on the banks of the\nlake, which was named Aghthamar, and which she thereafter made her\nsummer residence. The business that brought Semiramis into Armenia\nwas a strange romance. Ara, eighth patriarch of Hayasdan, was famed\nthrough all the East for his surpassing beauty, and the Assyrian queen\nhearing that he was the fairest to look upon of all mortal men, sent\nhim a proposal of marriage; but he, staunch to the faith in the one\ntrue God, which he believed had been transmitted to him from Noah,\nwould have nothing to say to the offer of the idolatrous ruler.\nSemiramis, greatly incensed, advanced with her army into the heart of\nArmenia, and defeated the forces of the Patriarch; but bitter were the\nfruits of the victory, for Ara, instead of being taken alive, as\nshe had commanded, was struck down at the head of his men, and his\nbeautiful form, stiffened by death, was laid at the queen's feet.\nSemiramis was plunged in the wildest despair; she endeavoured to bring\nhim to life by magic; that failing, she had his body embalmed and\nplaced in a golden coffin, which was set in her chamber; no one was\nallowed to call him dead, and she spoke of him as her beloved consort.\nA spot is pointed out to the traveller bearing the name of Ara Seni,\n\"Ara is sacrificed.\"\n\nThe favourite theme of the men of Van is, of course, the treacherous\nelement on which the lot of most of them is cast. One of their songs\ngives the legend of the \"Old Man and the Ship.\" Our Lord, as an old\nman with a white beard, cried sweetly to the sailors to take him into\nthe ship. The sailors answer that the ship is freighted by a merchant,\nand the passage-money is great. \"Go away, white-bearded old man,\" they\nsay. But our Lord pays the money and comes into the ship. Presently\na gale blows up and the sailors are exceeding wroth, for they imagine\nthe strange passenger has brought them ill-luck. They ask, \"Whence\ndidst them come, O sinful man? Thou art lost, and thou hast lost us!\"\n\"I a sinner!\" replies the Lord, \"give me the ship, and go you to sweet\nsleep.\" He made the sign of the cross with his right hand, with his\nleft he steered the helm. It was not yet mid-day when the ship safely\nreached the shore.\n\n    Brothers, arise from your sweet sleep, from your sweet sleep\n    and your sad dreams. Fall at the feet of Jesus; here is our\n    Lord, here is our ship.\n\n\"Sweet sleep and sad dreams\"--he must have been a true poet who\nthus crystallised the sense of poor humanity's unrest, even in its\nprofoundest repose. The whole little story strikes one as full of\ndelicate suggestiveness.\n\nOne more sample of the style of the Armenian \"Lake-school.\"\n\nON ONE WHO WAS SHIPWRECKED ON THE LAKE OF VAN.\n\n  We sailed in the ship from Aghthamar,\n    We directed our ship towards Avan;\n    When we arrived before Vosdan\n    We saw the dark sun of the dark day.\n\n  Dull clouds covered the sky,\n    Obscuring at once stars and moon;\n    The winds blew fiercely,\n    And took from my eyes land and shore.\n\n  Thundered the heaven, thundered the earth,\n    The waters of the blue sea arose;\n    On every side the heavens shot forth fire;\n    Black terror invaded my heart.\n\n  There is the sky, but the earth is not seen,\n    There is the earth, but the sun is not seen;\n    The waves come like mountains\n    And open before me a deep abyss.\n\n  O sea, if thou lovest thy God,\n    Have pity on me, forlorn and wretched;\n    Take not from me my sweet sun,\n    And betray me not to flinty-hearted Death.\n\n  Pity, O sea, O terrible sea!\n    Give me not up to the cold winds;\n    My tears implore thee\n    And the thousand sorrows of my heart....\n\n  The savage sea has no pity!\n    It hears not the plaintive voice of my broken heart;\n    The blood freezes in my veins,\n    Black night descends upon my eyes....\n\n  Go tell to my mother\n    To sit and weep for her darkened son;\n    That John was the prey of the sea,\n    The sun of the young man is set!\n\nSummer, with its flowers, and warmth, and wealth, never stays long\nenough in Armenia for it to become a common ordinary thing. It is a\nbeautiful wonder-time, a brief, splendid nature-fair, which vanishes\nlike a dream before the first astonishment and delight are worn into\nindifference. The season when \"the nightingale sings to the rose at\ndewy dawn\" departs swiftly, and envious winter strangles autumn in its\nbirth.\n\nWhat a winter, too! a winter which despotically governs the complete\neconomy of the people's system of life. Let us take a peep into an\nArmenian interior on a December evening. Three months the snow has\nbeen in possession of mountain and valley; for more than four months\nmore it will remain. Abroad it is light enough, though night has\nfallen; for the moon shines down in wonderful brightness upon the\nice-bound earth. On the hill-slope various little unevennesses are\ndiscernible, jutting out from the snow like mushrooms. In one part the\nground is cut away perpendicularly for a few feet; this is the front\nof the homestead, the body of which lies burrowed in the slope of the\nhill. When the house was made the floor was dug out some five feet\nunderground, while the ceiling beams rose three or four feet above it;\nbut all the dug-out soil was thrown about the roof and back and side\nwalls, and thus the whole is now embedded in the hillock. The roof was\nneatly turfed over when the house was finished, so that in summer the\nlambs and children play upon it, and not unfrequently, in the great\nheats, the family sleep there--\"at the moon's inn.\" What look like\nmushrooms are in reality the broad-topped chimneys, on which the\nsummer storks build their nests. The homestead has but one entrance;\na large front door which leads through a long dark passage to a second\ndoor that swings-to after you, and is hung with a rough red-dyed\nsheepskin. This door opens upon the entrance-hall, whence you mount\nhalf-a-dozen steps to a raised platform, under which the house dogs\nare located. On two sides the platform is bounded by solid stone\nwalls, from which are suspended saddles, guns, pistols, and one or two\npictures representing the deeds of some Persian hero, and bought of\nPersian hawkers. On the other two sides an open woodwork fence divides\nit from a vast stable. Nearest the grating are fastened the horses\nof the clan-chief; next are the donkeys, then the cows; sheep and\nchickens find places where they can. The breath of these animals\nmaterially contributes to the warmth of the house, which is at times\nalmost like an oven, even in the coldest weather. A clear hot fire\nburns on the hearth; the fuel used is tezek, a preparation of cow-dung\npressed into a substance resembling peat turf. By day the habitation\nis obscurely lighted through a small aperture in the roof glazed with\noiled silk, and supplemented by a sort of funnel, the wide opening\ndownwards. Now, in the evening, the oil burning in a simple iron lamp\nover the hearth, affords a dim illumination.\n\nThe platform above described is the salemlik, or hall of reception. It\ncontains no chairs, but divans richly draped with Koordish stuffs; the\nfloor is carpeted with tekeke, a kind of grey felt. To the right of\nthe hearth sits the head of the family, a venerable old man, whose\nword is incontrovertible law to every member of his house. He is also\nAl Sakal, or \"white beard\" of the village, a dignity conferred on\nhim by the unanimous voice of his neighbours, and constituting him\nintermediary in all transactions with government. When important\nmatters are at stake, he meets the elders of the surrounding hamlets,\nwho, resolved into committee, form the Commune. This ancient usage\nbears witness to the essentially patriarchal and democratic basis of\nArmenian society.\n\nOur family party consists of three dozen persons, the representatives\nof four generations. The young married women come in and out from\ndirecting the preparations of the supper. Nothing is to be seen of\ntheir faces except their lustrous eyes (Armenian eyes are famous for\ntheir brilliancy), a tightly-fitting veil enclosing the rest of their\nfeatures. Without this covering they do not by any chance appear even\nin the house; it is said they wear it also at night. One of them is\na bride; her dress is rich and striking--a close-fitting bodice,\nfastening at the neck with silver clasps, full trousers of\nrose-coloured silk gathered in at the ankles by a fillet of silver,\nthe feet bare, a silver girdle of curious workmanship loosely\nencircling the waist, and a long padded garment open down the front\nwhich hangs from the shoulders. Poor little bride! She has not uttered\na single word save when alone with her husband since she pronounced\nthe marriage vow. She may not hope to do so till after the birth of\nher first-born child; then she will talk to her nursling, after a\nwhile to her mother-in-law, sometime later she may converse with her\nown mother, and by-and-by, in a subdued whisper, with the young girls\nof the house. During the first year of her married life she may not\ngo out of the house except twice to church. Her disciplinary education\nwill not be complete for six years, after which she will enjoy\ncomparative liberty, but never in her life must she open her lips to\na person of the stronger sex not related to her. Turn from the silent\nlittle bride to that bevy of young girls, merry and playful as the\nkittens they are fondling--silky-haired snowballs, of a breed peculiar\nto the neighbourhood of Van, their tails dyed pink with henna like the\ntail of the Shah's steed. The girls are laughing and chatting together\nwithout restraint--most probably about their love affairs, for they\nare free to dispose of their hands as they choose. And they may walk\nabout unveiled, and show off their pretty faces and long raven plaits\nto the fullest advantage.\n\nSuddenly a knocking is heard outside; the dogs yell from under the\nplatform; the Whitebeard says whoever be the wanderer he shall have\nbed and board, and he orders fresh tezek to be thrown on the fire; for\nto-night it is bitter cold out abroad--were a man to stand still five\nminutes, he would freeze in his shoes. One of the sons descends the\nsteps, pushes aside the sheep-skin, and leads the traveller in.\nThis one says he is the minstrel. What joy in the family! The blind\nminstrel, who will sing the most exciting ballads and tell the most\nmarvellous tales. He is welcomed by all; only the young bride steals\nout of the room--she may not remain in a stranger's presence. The\nlively girls want to hear a story at once; but the Whitebeard says the\nguest must first have rest and refreshment. But while they are waiting\nfor the meal to be laid out, the blind minstrel relates something of\nhis recent travels, which in itself is almost as good as a fairy tale.\nHe has just arrived from Persia, whither he will soon return; for he\nhas only come back to the snows of Armenia to breathe the air of home\nfor a little. Did he go to Teheran? No; to say the truth, he deemed it\nwiser to keep at a discreet distance from that capital. Such a thing\nhad been heard of ere now as the Shah putting under requisition any\nskilful musicians who came in his way to teach their art to the fair\nones of the harem; so that occasionally it was unpleasantly difficult\nto get out of Teheran when once you were in it. Still he was by no\nmeans without interesting news. In a certain part of Persia he had\nmet another blind master-singer, with whom he strove for the prize of\nminstrelsy. Both were entertained by a great Persian prince. When\nthe day came they were led out upon an open grass-plot and seated one\nfacing the other. The prince took up his position, and five thousand\npeople made a circle round the competitors. Then the grand brain-fight\nbegan; the rivals contended in song and verse, riddle and repartee.\nNow one starts an acrostic on the prince's name, in which each side\ntakes alternate letters; then the other versifies some sacred passage,\nwhich his opponent must catch up when he breaks off. The ball is kept\nflying to and fro with unflagging zeal; the crowd is rapturous in its\nplaudits. But at length our minstrel's adversary pauses, hesitates,\nfails to seize the drift of his rival's latest sally, and answers at\nrandom. A shout proclaims him beaten. The triumphant bard is led to\nwhere he stands, and taking his lyre from him breaks it into atoms.\nThe vanquished retires discomfited to the obscurity of his native\nvillage, where haply his humble talents will not be despised. The\nvictor is robed in the prince's mantle, and taken to the highest seat\nin the banqueting-hall.\n\nThis is what the minstrel has to tell as he warms his hands over the\nfire while the young married women serve the supper. A rush-mat is\nplaced upon the low round board, over that the table-cloth; then a\nlarge tray is set in the middle, with the viands arranged on it in\nmetal dishes: onion soup, salted salmon-trout from the blue Gokschai,\nhard-boiled eggs shelled and sliced, oil made from Kunjut seeds, which\ndoes instead of butter; pilau, a dish resembling porridge; mutton\nstewed with quinces, leeks, and various raw and preserved roots, cream\ncheese, sour milk, dried apricots, and stoned raisins, form the bill\nof fair. A can of golden wine is set out: there is plenty more in the\ngoatskins should it be wanted. The provisions are completed by an\nitem more important in Armenia than with us--bread. The flour-cake\nor _losh_, a yard long and thin as paper, which is placed before each\nguest, answers for plate, knives, forks, napkin, all of which are\nabsent. The Whitebeard says grace and the Lord's Prayer, everyone\ncrossing himself. The company wipe their mouths with a _losh_, and\nproceed to help themselves with it to anything that tempts their fancy\non the middle tray. Some make a promiscuous sandwich of fish, mutton,\nand leeks wrapped up in a piece of _losh_; others twist the _losh_\ninto the shape of a spoon and ladle out the sour milk, swallowing\nboth together. The members of the family watch the minstrel's least\ngesture, so as to anticipate his wishes; one after the other they\nclaim the privilege of waiting on him. When the meal is done, a young\nhousewife gently washes the guest's head and feet, and the whole party\nadjourn to the chimney-corner. The evening flies mirthfully away,\nlistening to the minstrel's tales and ballads, these latter being\nmostly in Tartar, the Provencal of the eastern troubadour. Finally,\nthe honoured visitor is conducted to his room, the \"minstrel's\nchamber,\" which, in every well-ordered Armenian household, is always\nkept ready.\n\nOur little picture may be taken as the faithful reproduction of no\nvery extraordinary scene. Of ballad-singers such as the one here\nintroduced there are numbers in Armenia, where that \"sixth sense,\"\nmusic, is the recognised vocation of the blind. Those who are\nproficient travel within a very wide area, and are everywhere received\nwith the highest consideration.\n\nIn the East, the ballad-singer and the story-teller are just where\nthey were centuries ago. At Constantinople, the story-teller sits\ndown on his mat in the public place or at the _cafe_; listeners gather\nround; he begins his story in a conversational tone, varying his voice\naccording to the characters; and soon both himself and his hearers are\nas far away in the wondrous mazes of the \"Arabian Nights\" as if Europe\nwere still trembling before the sword of the Caliph.\n\nWith regard to the unique marriage customs of Armenia, I ought to say\nthat they are asserted to result in the happiest unions. The general\nidea upon which they rest seems to be derived from a series of\nconclusions logical enough if you grant the premisses--indeed,\ncuriously more like some pen and paper scheme evolved out of the inner\nconsciousness of a German professor than a working system of\nactual life. The prevailing custom in the East, as in some European\ncountries, is for the young girl to know nothing whatever of her\nintended husband; only in the one case this is followed by total\nseclusion after marriage, and in the other by complete emancipation.\nIn Armenia, on the contrary, the young girl makes her own choice, and\nlove-matches are not uncommon; but the choice once made and ratified\nby the priest, the order of things is so arranged as to cause her\nhusband to become the woman's absorbing thought, his society her sole\nsolace, his pleasure the whole business of her life. For the rest she\nis treated with much solicitude; even the peasant will not let his\nwife do out-door work.\n\nMoses of Khoren gives the history of a wedding that took place about\none hundred years after Christ. In those days the tribes of the Alans,\nin league with the mountaineers of the Caucasus and a part of the\npeople of Georgia, descended upon Armenia in considerable numbers.\nArdashes, the Armenian king, assembled his troops and advanced against\nthem. In a battle fought upon the confines of the two nations, the\nAlans gave way, and having crossed the Cyrus, encamped on the northern\nbank, the river dividing the contending forces. The son of the King of\nthe Alans had been taken prisoner and was conducted to Ardashes. His\nfather offered to conclude a peace on such conditions as Ardashes\nmight exact and under promise, guaranteed by a solemn oath, that the\nAlans would attempt no further incursions on Armenian territory. As\nArdashes refused to surrender the young prince, the sister of the\nyouth ran to the edge of the river and climbing upon a lofty hillock,\ncaused these words to be addressed to the enemy's camp by the mouth\nof interpreters: \"Hear me, valorous Ardashes, conqueror of the brave\nAlans; grant unto me the surrender of this young man--unto me, the\nmaiden with beautiful eyes. It is not worthy of a hero in order to\nsatisfy a desire for vengeance, to take the life of the sons of heroes\nor to hold them in bondage and keep up an endless feud between two\nnations.\" Ardashes, having heard these words, approached the river. He\nsaw the beautiful Sathinig, listened to her wise counsels, and fell\nin love with her. Then, having called Sumpad, an aged warrior who\nhad watched over his childhood, he laid bare the wish of his heart to\nmarry the princess, make a treaty of amity with her nation and send\nback the prince in peace. Sumpad, having approved of these projects,\nsent to ask the King of the Alans for the hand of Sathinig. \"What!\"\nreplied her father, \"will the valorous King Ardashes have ever\ntreasure enough to offer me in return for the noble damsel of the\nAlans?\"\n\nA popular song, carefully preserved by Moses, celebrates the marriage\nof Ardashes and Sathinig:--\n\n  The valiant King Ardashes, astride of a sable charger,\n  Drew forth a thong of leather, garnished with golden rings:\n  And quick as fast-flying eagle he crossed the flowing river\n  And the crimson leather thong, garnished with rings of gold,\n  Cast he about the body of the Virgin of the Alans,\n  Clasping in painful embrace the maiden's tender form:\n  Even so he drew her swiftly to his encampment.\n\nOnce again Ardashes appears in the people's poetry. He is no longer\nthe triumphant victor in love and war; the hour of his death draws\nnear. \"Oh!\" says the dying king, \"who will give me back the smoke of\nmy hearth, and the joyous New Year's morning, and the spring of the\ndeer, and the lightness of the roe?\" Then his mind wanders away to the\nruling passion: \"We sounded the trumpets; after the manner of kings we\nbeat the drums.\"\n\nThe Armenian princes were in the habit, when they married, of throwing\npieces of money from the threshold of their palace, whilst the royal\nbrides scattered pearls about the nuptial chamber. To this custom\nallusion is made in two lines which used to be sung as a sort of\nmarriage chaunt:--\n\n  A rain of gold fell at the wedding of Ardashes,\n  A rain of pearls fell on the nuptials of Sathinig.\n\nArmenian nuptial songs, like all other folk-epithalamiums, so far as I\nam aware, seem to point to an early state of society when the girl was\nsimply carried off by her marauding lover by fraud or force. Exulting\nin what relates to the bridegroom, the favourite song on this subject\nis profoundly melancholy as concerns the bride. The mother was cajoled\nwith a pack of linen, the father with a cup of wine, the brother\nwith a pair of boots, the little sister with a finger of antimony--so\ncomplains the dismal ditty of a new bride. There is great pathos in\nthe words in which she begs her mother not to sweep the sand off the\nlittle plank, so that the slight trace of her girl's footsteps may not\nbe effaced.\n\nMarriage is called in Armenian, \"The Imposition of the Crown,\" from\nthe practice of crowning bride and bridegroom with fresh, white\nflowers. I remember how, in one of the last marriages celebrated in\nthe little Armenian church in the Rue Monsieur (which was closed a\nfew years ago, when the Mekhitarist property in Paris was sold), this\nceremony was omitted by particular request of the bridegroom, a rising\nFrench Diplomatist, who did not wish to wear a wreath of roses. The\nArmenian marriage formulae are extremely explicit. The priest, taking\nthe right hand of the bride, and placing it in that of the bridegroom,\nsays: \"According to the Divine order God gave to our ancestors, I give\nthee now this wife in subjection. Wilt thou be her master?\" To which\nthe answer is, \"Through the help of God, I will.\" The priest then asks\nthe woman: \"Wilt thou be obedient to him?\" She answers: \"I am obedient\naccording to the order of God.\" The interrogations are repeated three\ntimes, and three times responded to.\n\nAn Armenian author, M. Ermine, published at Moscow in 1850 a treatise\non the historical and popular songs of ancient Armenia.\n\nOf popular songs current in more recent times there was not, till\nlately, a single specimen within reach of the public, though it was\nconfidently surmised that such must exist. The Mekhitarist monks have\ntaken the lead in this as in every other branch of Armenian research,\nand my examples are quoted from a small collection issued by their\npress at Venice. I am not sure that I have chosen those that are\nintrinsically the best, but think that those which figure in these\npages are amongst the most characteristic of their authors and origin.\nThe larger portion of these songs are printed from manuscripts in the\nlibrary of San Lazzaro; the date of their composition is thought\nto vary from the end of the thirteenth to the end of the eighteenth\ncentury. The language in which they are written is the vulgar\ntongue of Armenia, but in several instances it attains a very close\napproximation to the classical Armenian.\n\nIt may not be amiss if I conclude this sketch with a brief account\nof the remarkable order of the Mekhitarists, which is so intimately\nrelated with all that bears on the subject of Armenian literature.\nThose who are well acquainted with it will not object to hear the\nhistory of this order recapitulated; while I believe that many who\nhave visited the Convent of San Lazzaro have yet but vague notions\nregarding the work and aims of its inmates. It is to be conjectured\nthat, as a matter of fact, the majority of Englishmen go to San\nLazzaro rather in the spirit of a Byron-pilgrimage than from any\ndefinite interest in the convent; and without doubt were its only\nattraction its association with the English poet it would still be\nworth a visit. Byron's connection with San Lazzaro was not one of the\nleast interesting episodes of his life; and it is pleasant to remember\nthe tranquil hours he spent in the society of the learned monks, and\nthe fascination exercised over him by their sterling and unpretentious\nmerit. \"The neatness, the comfort, the gentleness, the unaffected\ndevotion of the brethren of the order,\" he wrote, \"are well fitted to\nstrike the man of the world with the conviction that there is 'Another\nand a better even in this life.'\" The desire to present himself with\nan excuse for frequent intercourse with the brothers was probably at\nthe bottom of Byron's sudden discovery that his mind \"wanted something\ncraggy to break upon, and that Armenian was just the thing to torture\nit into attention.\" He says it was the most difficult thing to be\nfound in Venice by way of an amusement, and describes the Armenian\ncharacter as a very \"Waterloo of an alphabet.\" The origin of this\ncharacter is exceedingly curious, it being the only alphabet known\nto have been the work of a single man, with the exception of the\nGeorgian, and now obsolete Caucasian Albanian. St Mesrop, an Armenian,\ninvented all the three about A.D. 406. Byron informs Moore, with some\nelation, of the fate that befell a French professorship of Armenian,\nwhich had then been recently instituted: \"Twenty pupils presented\nthemselves on Monday morning, full of noble ardour, ingenuous youth,\nand impregnable industry. They persevered with a courage worthy of the\nnation, and of universal conquest till Thursday, then _fifteen_ out\nof the _twenty_ succumbed to the six-and-twentieth letter of the\nalphabet.\" The poet himself mastered all thirty-three letters, and a\ngood deal more besides, under the superintendence of the librarian,\nPadre Paschal Aucher, a man who combined great learning with much\nknowledge of the world. As the result of these studies we have a\ntranslation into Scriptural English of two apocryphal epistles of St\nPaul, and an Anglo-Armenian grammar, of which, with characteristic\nliberality, Byron defrayed the cost of publication.\n\nThe order was founded by Varthabed Mekhitar, who was born at Sebaste,\nin Asia Minor, in 1676. Mekhitar was one of those men to whom it comes\nquite naturally to go forth with David's sling and stone against the\nPhilistine and his host. He could have been scarcely more than twenty\nyears of age when fearlessly and steadfastly he set himself to the\ngigantic task of raising his country out of the stagnant slough of\nignorance in which he saw it sunk. He was then a candidate for holy\norders, studying in an Armenian convent.\n\nThe monks he found no less ignorant than the rest of the population;\nthose to whom he broached his ideas greeted them with derision, and\nthis did not fail to turn to cruel persecution when he began to preach\nagainst certain prejudices which appeared to him to keep the Armenians\nfrom conforming with the Latin Church--a union he earnestly desired.\nMekhitar now went to Constantinople, where he set on foot a small\nmonastic society; presently he moved to Modon, in the Morea, then\nunder the rule of Venice, but before he had been there long, the place\nwas seized by the Turks. A few of the monks, with their head, managed\nto escape to Venice; the others were taken prisoners, and sold into\na temporary slavery. At Venice, in 1717, the Signory made over to\nthe fugitives in perpetuity a small barren island in the Lagune, once\ntenanted by the Benedictines, who had there established a hospital for\nlepers, but which, since the disappearance of that disease, had been\nentirely uninhabited. Mekhitar immediately organised a printing\npress, and began making translations of standard works, which were\ndisseminated wherever Armenians were to be found, that is to say,\nall over the East. When he died in 1747, the work of the society was\nalready placed on a solid foundation; but it received considerable\ndevelopment and extension from the hands of the third abbot-general,\nCount Stephen Aconzkover, Archbishop of Sinnia, by birth a member of\nan Armenian colony in Hungary, who sought admittance into the order,\nand lived in the retirement of San Lazzaro for sixty-seven years.\nHe was a poet, a scholar of no mean attainments, and the author of\na universal geography in twelve volumes. The Society is now\nself-supporting, large numbers of its publications being sold in\nPersia, and India, and at Constantinople. These publications consist\nof numerous translations and of reproductions of the great part of\nArmenian literature. Many works have been printed from MSS. which are\ncollected by emissaries sent out from San Lazzaro to travel over the\nplains and valleys of Armenia for the purpose of rescuing the literary\nrelics which are widely scattered, and are in constant danger of loss\nor destruction, and at the same time to distribute Armenian versions\nof the Bible. Another of the undertakings of the convent is a school\nexclusively for the education of Armenian boys. About one hundred\nboys receive free instruction in the two colleges at Venice. What this\norder have effected, both towards the enlightenment of their country\nand in keeping alive the sentiment of Armenian nationality, is simply\nincalculable. In their self-imposed exile they have nobly carried out\nthe precept of an Armenian folk-poet:\n\n  Forget not our Armenian nation,\n  And always assist and protect it.\n  Always keep in thy mind\n  To be useful to thy fatherland.\n\nOn my first visit I passed a long summer morning in examining all\nthe points of interest about the monastery--the house and printing\npresses, the library with its beautiful Pali papyrus of the Buddhist\nordination service, and its illuminated manuscripts, the minaretted\nchapel, and the silent little Campo Santo, under the direction of\nthe most courteous and accomplished of cicerones, Padre Giacomo,\nDr Issaverdenz: a name signifying \"Jesus-given.\" I saw the bright,\nintelligent band of scholars: \"of these,\" said my conductor, \"five or\nsix will remain with us.\" I was shown the page of the visitor's book\ninscribed with Byron's signature in English and in Armenian. Later\nentries form a long roll of royal and notable names. The little museum\ncontains Daniel Manin's tricolor scarf of office, given to the monks\nby the son of that devoted patriot. Queen Margherita does not fail to\npay San Lazzaro a yearly visit, and has lately accepted the dedication\nof a book of Armenian church music.\n\nDuring this tour of inspection, various topics were discussed: the\ntendencies of modern thought, the future of the church, with\nother matters of a more personal nature--and upon each my guide's\nobservations displayed a singularly intellectual and tolerant attitude\nof mind, together with a way of looking at things and speaking of\npeople in which \"sweetness and light\" were felicitously apparent. It\nwas difficult to tear oneself away from the open window in Byron's\nlittle study. The day was one of those matchless Venetian days, when\nthe heat is tempered by a breeze just fresh enough to agitate the\nawning of your gondola; and the Molo and Riva, and Fortune's golden\nball on the Dogana, the white San Giorgio Maggiore, the ships eastward\nbound, the billowy line of the mountains of Vicenza against the\nhorizon, lie steeped in a bath of sunshine. But the outlook from the\nconvent window is not upon these. Beneath are the green berceaux of\na small vineyard, a little garden gay in its tangle of purple\nconvolvulus, a pomegranate lifting its laden boughs towards us--to\nremind the Armenians of the \"flowering pomegranates\" of their beloved\ncountry. Beyond the vineyard stretches the aquamarine surface of the\nlagune--then the interminable reach of Lido--after that the ethereal\nblue of the Adriatic melting away into the sky. Such is the scene\nwhich till they die the good monks will have under their eyes. Perhaps\nthey are rather to be envied than compassionated; for it is manifest\nthat for them, duty--to use the eloquent expression of an English\ndivine--has become transfigured into happiness. \"I shall stay here\nwhilst I live,\" Dr Issaverdenz said, \"and I am happy--quite happy!\"\n\n\n\n\nVENETIAN FOLK-SONGS.\n\n\nTo the idealised vision that goes along with hereditary culture\na large town may seem an impressive spectacle. For Wordsworth,\nworshipper of nature though he was, earth had not anything to show\nmore fair than London from Westminster Bridge, and Victor Hugo found\nendless inspiration on the top of a Parisian omnibus. As shrines of\nart, as foci of historic memories, even simply as vast aggregates of\nhuman beings working out the tragi-comedy of life, great cities have\nfurnished the key-note to much fine poetry. But it is different\nwith the letterless masses. The student of literature, who turns to\nfolk-songs in search of a new enjoyment, will meet with little to\nattract him in urban rhymes; if there are many that present points\nof antiquarian interest, there are few that have any kind of poetic\nworth. The people's poetry grows not out of an ideal world of\nassociation and aspiration, but from the springs of their life. They\ncannot see with their minds as well as with their eyes. What they do\nsee in most great towns is the monotonous ugliness which surrounds\ntheir homes and their labour. Then again, it is a well-known fact that\nwith the people loss of individuality means loss of the power of\nsong; and where there is density of population there is generally a\nuniformity as featureless as that of pebbles on the sea beach.\nStill to the rule that folk-poesy is not a thing of town growth one\nexception has to be made. Venice, unique under every aspect, has songs\nwhich, if not of the highest, are unquestionably of a high order. The\ngeneralising influences at play in great political centres have hardly\naffected the inhabitants of the city which for a thousand years of\nindependence was a body politic complete in itself. Nor has Venetian\ncommon life lacked those elements of beauty without whose presence the\npopular muse is dumb. The very industries of the Venetians were\narts, and when they were young and spiritually teachable, their chief\nbread-winning work of every day was Venice--her ducal chapel, her\ncampanile, her palaces of marble and porphyry. In the process of\nmaking her the delight of after ages, they attended an excellent\nschool of poetry.\n\nThe gondolier contemporary with Byron was correctly described as\nsongless. At a date closely coinciding with the overthrow of Venetian\nfreedom, the boatmen left off waking the echoes of the Grand Canal,\nexcept by those cries of warning which, no one can quite say why, so\nthrill and move the hearer. It was no rare thing to find among the\nItalians of the Lombardo-Venetian provinces the old pathetic instinct\nof keeping silence before the stranger. I recollect a story told me\nby one of them. When he was a boy, Antonio--that was his name--had to\nmake a journey with two young Austrian officers. They took notice of\nthe lad, who was sprightly and good-looking, and by and by they asked\nhim to sing. \"Canta, canta, il piccolo,\" said they; \"sing us the songs\nof Italy.\" He refused. They insisted, and, coming to a tavern, they\ngave him wine, which sent the blood to his head. So at last he said,\n\"Very well, I will sing you the songs of Italy.\" What he sang was one\nof the most furiously anti-Austrian songs of '48. \"Ah! taci, taci il\npiccolo!\" cried the officers, but the \"piccolo\" would not be quiet\nuntil he had sung the whole revolutionary repertory. The Austrians\nknew how to appreciate the boy's spirit, for they pressed on him a ten\nfranc piece at parting.\n\nTo return to Venice. In the year 1819 an English traveller asked for\na song of a man who was reported to have once chanted Tasso _alla\nbarcaruolo_; the old gondolier shook his head. \"In times like these,\"\nhe said, \"he had no heart to sing.\" Foreign visitors had to fall back\non the beautiful German music, at the sound of which Venetians ran\nout of the Piazza, lest they might be seduced by its hated sweetness.\nMeanwhile the people went on singing in their own quarters, and away\nfrom the chance of ministering to their masters' amusement. It is\neven probable that the moral casemate to which they fled favoured the\npreservation of their old ways, that of poetising included. Instead of\naiming at something novel and modern, the Venetian wished to be like\nwhat his fathers were when the flags on St Mark's staffs were not\nyellow and black. So, like his fathers, he made songs and sang songs,\nof which a good collection has been formed, partly in past years,\nand partly since the black-and-yellow standard has given place,\nnot, indeed, to the conquered emblems of the Greek isles, but to the\ncolours of Italy, reconquered for herself.\n\nVenetian folk-poesy begins at the cradle. The baby Venetian, like\nmost other babies, is assured that he is the most perfect of created\nbeings. Here and there, underlying the baby nonsense, is a dash of\npathos. \"Would you weep if I were dead?\" a mother asks, and the child\nis made to answer, \"How could I help weeping for my own mamma, who\nloves me so in her heart?\" A child is told that if he asks his mother,\nwho is standing by the door, \"What are you doing there?\" she will\nreply, \"I am waiting for thy father; I wait and wait, and do not see\nhim coming; I think I shall die thus waiting.\" The little Venetian has\nthe failings of baby-kind all the world over; he cries and he laughs\nwhen he ought to be fast asleep. His mother tells him that he was born\nto live in Paradise; she is sure that the angels would rejoice in her\ndarling's beauty. \"Sleep well, for thy mother sits near thee,\" she\nsings, \"and if by chance I go away, God will watch thee when I am\ngone.\"\n\nA christening is regarded in Venice as an event of much social as\nwell as religious importance. By canon law the bonds of relationship\nestablished by godfatherhood count for the same as those of blood, for\nwhich reason the Venetian nobles used to choose a person of inferior\nrank to stand sponsor for their children, thus escaping the creation\nof ties prohibitive of marriage between persons of their own class. In\nthis case the material responsibilities of the sponsor were slight--it\nwas his part to take presents, and not to make them. By way of\nacknowledging the new connection, the child's father sent the\ngodfather a marchpane, that cake of mystic origin which is still\nhonoured and eaten from Nuremberg to Malaga. With the poor, another\norder of things is in force. The _compare de l'anelo_--the person\nwho acted as groomsman at the marriage--is chosen as sponsor to the\nfirst-born child. His duties begin even before the christening. When\nhe hears of the child's birth, he gets a piece of meat, a fowl, and\ntwo new-laid eggs, packs them in a basket, and despatches them to\nthe young mother. Eight days after the birth comes the baptism. On\nreturning from the church, the sponsor, now called _compare de\nSan Zuane_, visits the mother, before whom he displays his\npresents--twelve or fifteen lire for herself; for the baby a pair of\nearrings, if it be a girl; and if a boy, a pair of boy's earrings,\nor a single ornament to be worn in the right ear. Henceforth the\ngodfather is the child's natural guardian next to its parents; and\nshould they die, he is expected to provide for it. Should the child\ndie, he must buy the _zogia_ (the \"joy\"), a wreath of flowers now set\non the coffins of dead infants, but formerly placed on their heads\nwhen they were carried to the grave-isle in full sight of the people.\nThis last custom led to even more care being given to the toilet of\ndead children than what might seem required by decency and affection.\nTo dress a dead child badly was considered shameful. Tradition tells\nof what happened to a woman who was so miserly that she made her\nlittle girl a winding-sheet of rags and tatters. When the night of\nthe dead came round and all the ghosts went in procession, the injured\nbabe, instead of going with the rest, tapped at its mother's door and\ncried, \"Mamma, do you see me? I cannot go in procession because I\nam all ragged.\" Every year on the night of the dead the baby girl\nreturned to make the same reproach.\n\nVenetian children say before they go to bed:\n\n  Bona sera ai vivi,\n      E riposo ai poveri morti;\n  Bon viagio ai naveganti\n      E bona note ai tuti quanti.\n\nThere is a sort of touching simplicity in this; and somehow the wish\nof peace to the \"poor dead\" recalls a line of Baudelaire's--\n\n  Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs.\n\nBut as a whole, the rhymes of the Venetian nursery are not\ninteresting, save from their extreme resemblance to the nursery rhymes\nof England, France, or any other European country. They need not,\ntherefore, detain us.\n\nTwilight is of an Eastern brevity on the Adriatic shore, both in\nnature and in life. The child of yesterday is the man of to-day, and\nas soon as the young Venetian discovers that he has a heart, he takes\npains to lose it to a _Tosa_ proportionately youthful. The Venetian\nand Provencal word _Tosa_ signifies maiden, though whether the\nfamous Cima Tosa is thus a sister to the Jungfrau is not sure, some\nauthorities believing it to bear the more prosaic designation\nof baldheaded (\"Tonsurata\"). Our young Venetian may perhaps be\nunacquainted with the girl he has marked out for preference. In any\ncase he walks up and down or rows up and down assiduously under her\nwindow. One night he will sing to a slow, languorous air--possibly an\noperatic air, but so altered as to be not easy of recognition--\"I wish\nall good to all in this house, to father and to mother and as many as\nthere be; and to Marieta who is my beloved, she whom you have in\nyour house.\" The name of the singer is most likely Nane, for Nane and\nMarieta are the commonest names in Venice, which is explained by\nthe impression that persons so called cannot be bewitched, a serious\nadvantage in a place where the Black Art is by no means extinct. The\nmaiden long remembers the night when first her rest was disturbed\nby some such greeting as the above. She has rendered account of her\nfeelings:\n\n  Ah! how mine eyes are weighed in slumber deep!\n  Now all my life it seems has gone to sleep;\n  But if a lover passes by the door,\n  Then seems it this my life will sleep no more.\n\nIt does not do to appropriate a serenade with too much precipitation.\nDon Quixote gave it as his experience that no woman would believe that\na poem was written expressly for her unless it made an acrostic on her\nname spelt out in full. Venetian damsels proceed with less caution:\nhence now and then a sad disappointment. A girl who starts up all\npit-a-pat at the twanging of a guitar may be doomed to hear the cruel\nsentence pronounced in Lord Houghton's pretty lyric:\n\n  \"I am passing--Preme--but I stay not for you!\n                            Preme--not for you!\"\n\nEven more unkind are the literal words of the Venetian: \"If I pass\nthis way and sing as I pass, think not, fair one, that it is for\nyou--it is for another love, whose beauty surpasses yours!\"\n\nA brother or a friend occasionally undertakes the serenading. He\nis not paid like the professional Trovador whom the Valencian lover\nengages to act as his interpreter. He has no reward in view but empty\nthanks, and it is scarcely surprising if on damp nights he is inclined\nto fall into a rather querulous vein. \"My song is meant for the\n_Morosa_ of my companion,\" says one of these accommodating minstrels.\n\"If only I knew where she was! But he told me that she was somewhere\nin here. The rain is wetting me to the skin!\" Another exclaims more\ncheerfully, \"Beautiful angel, if it pleases God, you will become my\nsister-in-law!\"\n\nAfter the singing of the preliminary songs, Nane seeks a hint of the\neffect produced on the beloved Marieta. As she comes out of church,\nhe makes her a most respectful bow, and if it be returned ever so\nslightly, he musters up courage, and asks in so many words whether\nshe will have him. Marieta reflects for about three days; then she\ncommunicates her answer by sign or song. If she does not want him, she\nshuts herself up in the house and will not look out for a moment.\nNane begs her to show her face at the window: \"Come, oh! come! If thou\ncomest not 'tis a sign that thou lovest me not; draw my heart out of\nall these pangs.\" Marieta, if she is quite decided, sings back from\nbehind the half-closed shutters, \"You pass this way, and you pass in\nvain: in vain you wear out shoes and soles; expect no fair words from\nme.\" It may be that she confesses to not knowing her own mind: \"I\nshould like to be married, but I know not to whom: when Nane passes, I\nlong to say 'Yes;' when Toni passes, I am fain to look kindly at him;\nwhen Bepi passes, I wish to cry, God bless you!\" Or again, it may be\nthat her heart is not hers to give:\n\n  Wouldst thou my love? For love I have no heart;\n      I had it once, and gave it once away;\n      To my first love I gave it on a day ...\n  Wouldst thou my love? For love I have no heart.\n\nIn the event of the girl intimating that she is disposed to listen to\nher _Moroso_ if all goes well, he turns to her parents and formally\nasks permission to pay his addresses to their daughter. That\npermission is, of course, not always granted. If the parents have\nthoughts of a wealthier match, the poor serenader finds himself\nunceremoniously sent about his business. A sad state of things ensues.\nMarieta steals many a sorrowful glance at the despised Nane, who, on\nhis side, vents his indignation on the authors of her being in terms\nmuch wanting in respect. \"When I behold thee so impassioned,\" he\ncries, \"I curse those who have caused this grief; I curse thy papa and\nthy mamma, who will not let us make love.\" No idea is here implied\nof dispensing with the parental fiat; the same cannot be said of the\nfollowing observations: \"When I pass this house, my heart aches. The\ngirl wills me well, her people will me ill; her people will not hear\nof it, nor, indeed, will mine. So we have to make love secretly. But\nthat cannot really be done. He who wishes for a girl, goes and asks\nfor her--out of politeness. He who wants to have her, carries her\noff.\" It would seem that the maiden has been known to be the first to\nincite rebellion:\n\n  Do, my beloved, as other lovers do,\n  Go to my father, and ask leave to woo;\n  And if my father to reply is loth,\n  Come back to me, for thou hast got my troth.\nWhen the parents have no _prima facie_ objection to the youth, they\nset about inquiring whether he bears a good character, and whether\nthe girl has a real liking for him. These two points cleared up\nsatisfactorily, they still defer their final answer for some weeks or\nmonths, to make a trial of the suitor and to let the young people get\nbetter acquainted. The lover, borne up by hope, but not yet sure of\nhis prize, calls to his aid the most effective songs in his repertory.\nThe last thing at night Marieta hears:--\n\n  Sleep thou, most fair, in all security,\n    For I have made me guardian of thy gate,\n    Safe shalt thou be, for I will watch and wait;\n  Sleep thou, most fair, in all security.\n\nThe first thing in the morning she is greeted thus:\n\n  Art thou awake, O fairest, dearest, best?\n    Raise thy blond head and bid thy slumbers fly;\n    This is the hour thy lover passes by,\n  Throw him a kiss, and then return to rest.\n\nIf she has any lurking doubts of Nane's constancy she receives the\nassurance, \"One of these days I will surely make thee my bride--be not\nso pensive, fairest angel!\" If, on the other hand, Nane lacks complete\nconfidence in her affection, he appeals to her in words resembling I\nknow not what Eastern love-song: \"Oh, how many steps I have taken to\nhave thee, and how many more I would take to gain thee! I have taken\nso many, many steps that I think thou wilt not forsake me.\"\n\nThe time of probation over, the girl's parents give a feast, to which\nthe youth and his parents are invited. He brings with him, as a first\noffering, a small ring ornamented with a turquoise or a cornelian.\nBeing now the acknowledged lover, he may come and openly pay his court\nevery Sunday. On Saturday Marieta says to herself, \"_Ancuo xe sabo,\ndoman xe festa_--to-morrow is fete day, and to-morrow I expect Nane!\"\nThen she pictures how he will come \"dressed for the _festa_ with a\nlittle flower in his hand;\" and her heart beats with impatience.\nIf, after all, by some chance--who knows? by some faithlessness\nperhaps--he fails to appear, what grief, what tears! Marieta's first\nthought when she rises on Sunday morning is this: \"No one works to-day\nfor it is _festa_; I pray you come betimes, dearest love!\" Then comes\nthe second thought: \"If he does not come betimes, it is a sign that he\nis near to death; if later I do not see him, it is a sign that he is\ndead.\" The day passes, evening is here--no Nane! \"Vespers sound and\nmy love comes not; either he is dead, or\" (the third and bitterest\nthought of all) \"a love-thief has stolen him from me!\"\n\nSome little while after the lover has been formally accepted, he\npresents the maiden with a plain gold ring called _el segno_, and a\nsecond dinner or supper takes place at her parent's house, answering\nto the German betrothal feast; henceforth he is the _sposo_ and she\nthe _novizza_, and, as in Germany, people look on the pair as very\nlittle less than wedded. The new bride gives the bridegroom a silk\nhandkerchief, to which allusion is made in a verse running, \"What is\nthat handkerchief you are wearing? Did you steal it or borrow it? I\nneither stole it nor borrowed it; my _Morosa_ tied it round my neck.\"\nAt Easter the _sposo_ gives a cake and a couple of bottles of Cyprus\nor Malaga; at Christmas a box of almond sweetmeats and a little jug\nof _mostarda_ (a Venetian _specialite_ composed of quinces dressed in\nhoney and mustard); at the feast of St Martin, sweet chestnuts; at the\nfeast of St Mark, _el bocolo_--that is, a rosebud, emblematical of the\nopening year. The lover may also employ his generosity on New Year's\nday, on the girl's name-day, and on other days not specified, taking\nin the whole 365. Some maidens show a decided taste for homage\nin kind. \"My lover bids me sing, and to please him I will do it,\"\nobserves one girl, thus far displaying only the most disinterested\namiability. But presently she reveals her motives: \"He has a ring with\na white stone; when I have sung he will give it to me.\" A less sordid\ndamsel asks only for a bunch of flowers; it shall be paid for with a\nkiss, she says. Certain things there are which may be neither given\nnor taken by lovers who would not recklessly tempt fate. Combs are\nplaced under the ban, for they may be made to serve the purposes of\nwitchcraft; saintly images and church-books, for they have to do\nwith trouble and repentance; scissors, for scissors stand for evil\nspeaking; and needles, for it is the nature of needles to prick.\n\nWhether through the unwise exchange of these prohibited articles, or\nfrom other causes, it does sometimes happen that the betrothed lovers\nwho have been hailed by everybody as _novizza_ and _sposo_ yet manage\nto fall out beyond any hopes of falling in again. If it is the youth's\nfault that the match is broken off, all his presents remain in the\ngirl's undisputed possession; if the girl is to blame, she must send\nback the _segno_ and all else that she has received. It is said that\nin some districts of Venetia the young man keeps an accurate account\nof whatever he spends on behalf of his betrothed, and in the case of\nher growing tired of him, she has to pay double the sum total, besides\ndefraying the loss incurred by the hours he has sacrificed to her, and\nthe boots he has worn out in the course of his visits.\n\nIt is more usual, as well as more satisfactory, for the betrothal\nto be followed in due time by marriage. After the _segno_ has been\n\"passed,\" the _sposo_ sings a new song. \"When,\" asks he, \"will be the\nday whereon to thy mamma I shall say 'Madona;' to thy papa 'Missier;'\nand to thee, darling, 'Wife'?\" \"Madona\" is still the ordinary term for\nmother-in-law at Venice; in Tuscan songs the word is also used in that\nsense, though it has fallen out of common parlance. Wherever it is\nto be found, it points to the days when the house-mother exercised an\nunchallenged authority over all members of the family. Even now the\nmother-in-law of Italian folk-songs is a formidable personage; to say\nthe truth, there is no scant measure of self-congratulation when she\nhappens not to exist. \"Oh! Dio del siel, mandeme un ziovenin senza\nmadona!\" is the heartfelt prayer of the Venetian girl.\n\nIf the youth thinks of the wedding day as the occasion of forming new\nties--above all that dearest tie which will give him his _anzola bela_\nfor his own--the maiden dreams of it as the _zornada santa_; the day\nwhen she will kneel at the altar and receive the solemn benediction of\nthe church upon entering into a new station of life. \"Ah! when shall\ncome to pass that holy day, when the priest will say to me, 'Are you\ncontent?' when he shall bless me with the holy water--ah! when shall\nit come to pass?\"\n\nIt has been noticed that the institution of marriage is not regarded\nin a very favourable light by the majority of folk-poets, but Venetian\nrhymers as a rule take an encouraging view of it. \"He who has a wife,\"\nsings a poet of Chioggia, \"lives right merrily _co la sua cara sposa\nin compagnia_.\" Warning voices are not, however, wanting to tell the\nmaiden that wedded life is not all roses: \"You would never want to be\nmarried, my dear, if you knew what it was like,\" says one such;\nwhile another mutters, \"Reflect, girls, reflect, before ye wed these\ngallants; on the Ponte di Rialto bird cages are sold.\"\n\nThe marriage generally comes off on a Sunday. Who weds on Monday\ngoes mad; Tuesday will bring a bad end; Wednesday is a day good for\nnothing; Thursday all manner of witches are abroad; Friday leads to\nearly death; and, as to Saturday, you must not choose that, _parche de\nsabo piove_, \"because on Saturday it rains!\"\n\nThe bride has two toilets--one for the church, one for the wedding\ndinner. At the church she wears a black veil, at the feast she appears\ncrowned with flowers. After she is dressed and before the bridegroom\narrives, the young girl goes to her father's room and kneeling down\nbefore him, she prays with tears in her eyes to be forgiven whatever\ngrief she may have caused him. He grants her his pardon and gives her\nhis blessing. In the early dawn the wedding party go to church either\non foot or in gondolas, for it is customary for the marriage knot to\nbe tied at the conclusion of the first mass. When the right moment\ncomes the priest puts the _vera_, or wedding ring, on the tip of the\nbride's finger, and the bridegroom pushes it down into its proper\nplace. If the _vera_ hitches, it is a frightfully bad omen. When once\nit is safely adjusted, the best man steps forward and restores to\nthe bride's middle finger the little ring which formed the lover's\nearliest gift; for this reason he is called _compare de l'anelo_, a\nstyle and title he will one day exchange for that of _compare de San\nZuane_.\n\nAt the end of the service the bride returns to her father's house,\nwhere she remains quietly till it is time to get ready for dinner. As\nthe clock strikes four, the entire wedding party, with the parents\nof bride and bridegroom and a host of friends and relations, start in\ngondolas for the inn at which the repast is to take place. The whole\npopulation of the _calle_ or _campo_ is there to see their departure,\nand to admire or criticise, as the case may be. After dinner, when\neveryone has tasted the good wine and enjoyed the good fare, the feast\nbreaks up with cries of _Viva la novizza!_ followed by songs, stories,\nlaughter, and much flirtation between the girls and boys, who make the\nmost of the freedom of intercourse conceded to them in honour of\nthe day. Then the music begins, the table is whisked away, and the\nassembled guests join lustily in the dance; the women perhaps, singing\nat intervals, \"Enota, enota, enio!\" a burden borne over to Venice\nfrom the Grecian shore. The romance is finished; Marieta and Nane are\nmarried, the _zornada santa_ wanes to its close, the tired dancers\naccompany the bride to the threshold of her new home, and so adieu!\n\nBefore leaving the subject of Venetian love-songs it may be as well to\nglance at a few points characteristic of the popular mind which it has\nnot been convenient to touch upon in following the Venetian youth and\nmaiden from the _prima radice_ of their love to its consecration at\nthe altar. What, for instance, does the Venetian singer say of poverty\nand riches?--for there is no surer test of character than the way\nof regarding money and the lack of it. It is taken pretty well for\ngranted at Venice as elsewhere, that inequality of fortune is a bar to\nmatrimony. The poor girl says to her better-to-do lover, \"Thou passest\nthis way sad and grieving, thou thinkest to speak to my father, and\non thy finger thou dost carry a little ring. But thy thought does not\nfall in with my thought, and thy thought is not worth a gazette. Thou\nart rich and I am a poor little one!\" Here the girl puts all faith in\nthe good intentions of her suitor: it is not his fault if her poverty\ndivides them; it is the nature of things, against which there is no\nappeal. But there is more than one song that betrays the suspicion\nthat if a girl grows poor her lover will be only too eager and ready\nto desert her. \"My lady mother has always told me that she who falls\ninto poverty loses her lover; loses friend and loses hope. The purse\ndoes not sing when there is no coin in it.\" Still, on the whole, a\nmore high-minded view prevails. \"Do not look to my being a poor man,\"\nsays one lover,\n\n  Che povata no guasta gentilissa,\n\n--\"for poverty does not spoil or prevent gentle manners.\" A girl\nsings, \"All tell me that I am poor, the world's honour is my riches; I\nam poor, I am of fair fame; poor both of us, let us make love.\" One is\nreminded of \"how the good wife taught her daughter\" in the old English\npoem of the fifteenth century:\n\n  I pray the, my dere childe, loke thou bere the so well\n  That alle men may seyen thou art so trewe as stele;\n  Gode name is golde worth, my leve childe!\n\nA brave little Venetian maiden cries: \"How many there are who desire\nfortune! and I, poor little thing, desire it not. This is the fortune\nI desire, to wed a youth of twenty-one years.\" One lover pines for\nriches, but only that he may offer them to his beloved: \"Fair Marieta,\nI wish to make my fortune, to go where the Turk has his cradle, and\nwork myself nearly to death, so that afterwards I may come back to\nthee, my fair one, and marry thee.\" Finally, a town youth says that if\nhis country love has but a milk-pail for her dowry, what matters?\n\n  De dota la me da quel viso belo!\n\nThe Venetian displays no marked enthusiasm for fair hair,\nnotwithstanding the fame of Giorgione's sunset heads and the\ntraditional expedients by which Venetian ladies of past times\nsought to bring their dark locks into conformity with that painter's\nfavourite hue. In Venetian songs there is nothing about the \"golden\nspun silk\" of Sicily; if a Venetian folk-poet does speak of fair hair,\nhe calls it by the common-place generic term of blond. The available\nevidence goes rather to show that in his own heart he prefers a\nbrunette. \"My lady mother always told me that I should never be\nenamoured of white roses,\" says a sententious young man; \"she told\nme that I should love the little mulberries, which are sweeter than\nhoney.\" \"Cara mora,\" _mora_, or mulberry, meaning brunette, is\nan ordinary caressing term. Two frank young people carry on this\ndialogue: \"Will you come to me, fair maid?\" \"No; I will not come, for\nI am fair.\" \"If you are fair, I am no less so; if you are the rose, I\nam the spotless lily.\" Beauty, therefore, is valued, especially by\nthe possessors of it. But the Venetian admits the possibility of that\nwhich Keats found so hard to comprehend--the love of the plain. A\ngirl says, and it is a pretty saying, \"Se no so bela, ghe piaso al\nmio amore\" (\"If I am not fair, I please my beloved\"). A soldier,\nwhose _morosa_ dies, does not weep for her beauty, for she was not\nbeautiful; nor for her riches, for she was not rich; he weeps for her\nsweet manners and conversation--it was that that made him love her.\nThe universal weakness for a little flattery from the hand of the\nportrait-painter is expressed in a sprightly little song:\n\n  What does it matter if I am not fair,\n    Who have a lover, who a painter is?\n    He will portray me like a star, I wis;\n  What does it matter if I am not fair?\n\nWe hear a good deal of lovers' quarrels, and of the transitoriness of\nlove. \"Oh! God! how the sky is overcast! It seems about to rain, and\nthen it passes; so is it with a man in love; he loves a fair woman,\nand then he leaves her.\" That is her version of the affair. He has\nnot anything complimentary to say: \"If I get out of this squall alive,\nnever more shall woman in the world befool me. I have been befooled\nupon a pledge of sacred faith: mad is the man who believes in women.\"\nAnother man says, with more serious bitterness: \"What time have I not\nlost in loving you! Had I lost it in saying so many prayers, I should\nhave found favour before God, and my mother would have blessed me.\" A\nmatter-of-fact girl remarks, \"No one will grow thin on your account,\nnor will any one die on mine.\" When her lover says that he has sent\nher his heart in a basket, she replies that she sends back both basket\nand heart, being in want of neither; and if he should really happen to\ndie, she unfeelingly meditates, \"My love is dead, and I have not wept;\nI had thought to suffer more torment. A Pope dies, another is made;\nnot otherwise do I weep for my love.\"\n\nCertain vocations are looked upon with suspicion:\n\n  Sailor's trade--at sea to die!\n  Merchant's trade--that's bankruptcy;\n  Gambler's trade in cursing ends,\n  Thief's trade to the gallows sends.\n\nBut in spite of the second line about \"l'arte del mercante,\" a girl\ndoes not much mind marrying a merchant or shopkeeper; nay, it is\nsometimes her avowed ambition:\n\n  I want no fisher with a fishy smell,\n  A market gardener would not suit me well;\n  Nor yet a mariner who sails the sea:\n  A fine flour-merchant is the man for me.\n\nA miller seems to think that he stands a good chance: \"Come to the\nwindow, Columbine! I am that miller who brought thee, the other\nevening, the pure white flour.\" Shoemakers are in very bad odour: \"I\ncalegheri ga na trista fama.\" Fishermen are considered poor penniless\nfolk, and she who weds a sailor, does so at her peril:\n\n  L'amor del mariner no dura un 'ora,\n  La dove che lu el va, lu s' inamora.\n\nAnd even if the sailor's troth can be trusted, is it not his trade \"at\nsea to die\"? But the young girl will not be persuaded. \"All say to me,\n'Beauty, do not take the mariner, for he will make thee die;' if he\nmake me die, so must it be; I will wed him, for he is my soul.\" And\nwhen he is gone, she sings: \"My soul, as thou art beyond the port,\nsend me word if thou art alive or dead, if the waters of the sea have\ntaken thee?\" She returns sadly to her work, the work of all Venetian\nmaidens:\n\n  My love is far and far away from me,\n  I am at home, and he has gone to sea;\n  He is at sea, and he has sails to spread,\n  I am at home, and I have beads to thread.\n\nThe boatman's love can afford to sing in a lighter strain; there is\nnot the shadow of interminable voyages upon her. \"I go out on the\nbalcony, I see Venice, and I see my joy, who starts; I go out on the\nbalcony, I see the sea, and I see my love, who rows.\" Another song is\nperhaps a statement of fact, though it sounds like a poetic fancy:\n\n  To-night their boats must seek the sea,\n    One night his boat will linger yet;\n  They bear a freight of wood, and he\n    A freight of rose and violet.\n\nWho forgets the coming into Venice in the early morning light of the\nboats laden with fresh flowers and fruit?\n\nIsaac d'Israeli states that the fishermen's wives of the Lido,\nparticularly those of the districts of Malamocca and Pelestrina (its\nextreme end), sat along the shore in the evenings while the men were\nout fishing, and sang stanzas from Tasso and other songs at the\npitch of their voices, going on till each one could distinguish the\nresponses of her own husband in the distance.\n\nAt first sight the songs of the various Italian provinces appear to be\ngreatly alike, but at first sight only. Under further examination they\ndisplay essential differences, and even the songs which travel all\nover Italy almost always receive some distinctive touch of local\ncolour in the districts where they obtain naturalisation. The Venetian\npoet has as strongly marked an identity as any of his fellows. Not\nto speak of his having invented the four-lined song known as the\n\"Vilota,\" the quality of his work unmistakably reflects his peculiar\nidiosyncracies. An Italian writer has said, \"nella parola e nello\nscritto ognuno imita se stesso;\" and the Venetian \"imitates himself\"\nfaithfully enough in his verses. He has a well-developed sense of\nhumour, and his finer wit discerns less objectionable paths than\nthose of parody and burlesque, for which the Sicilian shows so fatal\na leaning. He is often in a mood of half-playful cynicism; if his\nparamount theme is love, he is yet fully inclined to have a laugh at\nthe expense of the whole race of lovers:\n\n  A feast I will prepare for love to eat,\n    Non-suited suitors I will ask to dine;\n  They shall have pain and sorrow for their meat,\n    They shall have tears and sobs to drink for wine;\n  And sighs shall be the servitors most fit\n  To wait at table where the lovers sit.\n\nAs compared with the Tuscan, the Venetian is a confirmed egotist.\nWhile the former well-nigh effaces his individual personality out\nof his hymns of adoration, the latter is apt to talk so much of his\nprivate feelings, his wishes, his disappointments, that the idol\nstands in danger of being forgotten. There is, indeed, a single\nsong--the song of one of the despised mariners--which combines\nthe sweet humility of Tuscan lyrics with a glow and fervour truly\nVenetian--possibly its author was in reality some Istriot seaman, for\nthe _canti popolari_ of Istria are known to partake of both styles.\nAnyhow, it may figure here, justified by what seems to me its own\nexcellence of conception:\n\n  Fair art thou born, but love is not for me;\n  A sailor's calling sends me forth to sea.\n  I do desire to paint thee on my sail,\n  And o'er the briny deep I'd carry thee.\n  They ask, What ensign? when the boat they hail--\n  For woman's love I bear this effigy;\n  For woman's love, for love of maiden fair;\n  If her I may not love, I love forswear!\n\nWhen he is most in earnest and most excited, the Venetian is still\nhomely--he has none of the Sicilian's luxuriant imagination. I may\ncall to mind a remark of Edgar Poe's to the effect that passion\ndemands a homeliness of expression. Passionate the Venetian poet\ncertainly is. Never a man was readier to \"dare e'en death\" at the\nbehest of his mistress--\n\n  Wouldst have me die? Then I'll no longer live.\n      Grant unto me for sepulchre thy bed,\n      Make me straightway a pillow of thy head,\n  And with thy mouth one kiss, beloved one, give.\n\nAt Chioggia, where still in the summer evenings _Orlando Furioso_ is\nread in the public places, and where artists go in quest of the old\nVenetian type, they sing a yet more impassioned little song.\n\n  Oh, Morning Star, I ask of thee this grace,\n    This only grace I ask of thee, and pray:\n  The water where thou hast washed thy breast and face,\n    In kindly pity throw it not away.\n  Give it to me for medicine; I will take\n  A draught before I sleep and when I wake;\n  And if this medicine shall not make me whole,\n  To earth my body, and to hell my soul!\n\nIt must be added that Venetian folk-poesy lacks the innate sympathy\nwith all beautiful natural things which pervades the poesy of the\nApennines. This is in part the result of outward conditions: nature,\nthough splendid, is unvaried at Venice. The temperament of the\nVenetian poet explains the rest. If he alludes to the _bel seren con\ntante stelle_, it is only to say that \"it would be just the night to\nrun away with somebody\"--to which assertion he tacks the disreputable\nrider, \"he who carries off girls is not called a thief, he is called\nan enamoured young man.\"\n\nEven in the most lovely and the most poetic of cities you cannot\nbreathe the pure air of the hills. The Venetian is without the intense\nrefinement of the Tuscan mountaineer, as he is without his love of\nnatural beauty. The Tuscan but rarely mentions the beloved one's\nname--he respects it as the Eastern mystic respects the name of\nthe Deity; the Venetian sings it out for the edification of all the\nboatmen of the canal. The Tuscan has come to regard a kiss as a thing\ntoo sacred to talk about; the Venetian has as few scruples on the\nsubject as the poet of Sirmio. Nevertheless, it should be recognised\nthat a not very blameable unreservedness of speech is the most serious\ncharge to be brought against all save a small minority of Venetian\nsingers. I believe that the able and conscientious collector, Signor\nBernoni, has exercised but slight censorship over the mass of songs he\nhas placed on record, notwithstanding which the number of those that\ncan be accused of an immoral tendency is extremely limited. Whence it\nis to be inferred that the looseness of manners prevailing amongst the\nhigher classes at Venice in the decadence of the Republic at no time\nbecame general in the lower and sounder strata of society.\n\nAt the beginning of this century, songs that were called Venetian\nballads were very popular in London drawing-rooms. That they were sung\nwith more effect before those who had never heard them in their own\ncountry than before those who had, will be easily believed. A charming\nletter-writer of that time described the contrast made by the gay or\nimpassioned strain of the poetry to \"the stucco face of the statue who\ndoles it forth;\" whilst in Venice, he added, it is seconded by all the\nnice inflections of voice, grace of gesture, play of features, that\ndistinguish Venetian women. One of the Venetian songs which gained\nmost popularity abroad was the story of the damsel who drops her ring\ninto the sea, and of the fisherman who fishes it up, refusing all\nother reward than a kiss:\n\n  Oh! pescator dell 'onda,\n          Findelin,\n  Vieni pescar in qua!\n  Colla bella sua barca\n  Colla bella se ne va\n          Findelin! lin, la!\n\nBut this song is not peculiarly Venetian; it is sung everywhere on the\nAdriatic and Mediterranean coasts. And the version used was in pure\nItalian. Judged as poetry, the existing Venetian ballads take a\nlower place than the _Vilote_. They are often not much removed from\ndoggerel, as may be shown by a lamentable history which confusedly\nsuggests Enoch Arden with the moral of \"Tue-la:\"\n\n  \"Who is that knocking at my gates?\n    Who is that knocking at my door?\"\n  \"A London captain 'tis who waits,\n    Your very humble servitor.\"\n  In deshabille the fair one ran,\n    Straightway the door she opened wide:\n  \"Tell me, my fair one, if you can,\n    Where does your husband now abide?\"\n  \"My husband he has gone to France,\n    Pray heaven that back he may not come;\"\n  --Just then the fair one gave a glance,\n    It was her spouse arrived at home!\n  \"Forgive, forgive,\" the fair one cried,\n    \"Forgive if I have done amiss;\"\n  \"There is no pardon,\" he replied,\n    For women who have sinned like this.\"\n  Her head fell off at the first blow,\n    The first blow wielded by his sword;\n  So does just Heaven its anger show\n    Against the wife who wrongs her lord.\n\nVenetian songs will serve as a guide to the character, but scarcely\nto the opinions, of the Venetians. The long struggle with Austria has\nleft no other trace than a handful of rough verses dating from the\nSiege--mere strings of _Evvivas_ to the dictator and the army. It may\nbe argued that the fact is not exceptional, that like the _Fratelli\nd'ltalia_ of Goffredo Mameli, the war-songs of the Italian movement\nwere all composed for the people and not by them. Still there have\nbeen genuine folk-poets who have discoursed after their fashion of\n_Italia libera_. The Tuscan peasants sang as they stored the olives of\n1859--\n\n  L'amore l'ho in Piamonte,\n  Bandiera tricolor!\n\nThere is not in Venetian songs an allusion to the national cause so\nnaively, so caressingly expressive as this. It cannot be that the\nVenetian _popolano_ did not care; whenever his love of country was\nput to the test, it was found in no way wanting. Was it that to his\npositive turn of mind there appeared to be an absence of connection\nbetween politics and poetry? Looking back to the songs of an earlier\nperiod, we find the same habit of ignoring public events. A rhyme,\nanswering the purpose of our \"Ride a cock horse,\" contains the sole\nreference to the wars of Venice with the Porte--\n\n  Andemo a la guera\n  Per mare e per tera,\n  E cataremo i Turchi,\n  Li mazzaremo tuti, &c.\n\nIn the proverbs, if not in the songs, a somewhat stronger impress\nremains of the independent attitude assumed by the Republic in its\ndealings with the Vatican. The Venetians denied Papal infallibility\nby anticipation in the saying, \"The Pope and the countryman know more\nthan the Pope alone;\" and in one line of a nursery ditty, \"El Papa no\nxe Re,\" they quietly abolished the temporal power. When Paul V.\nlaid the city under an interdict, the citizens made answer, \"Prima\nVeneziani e poi cristiani,\" a proverb that survives to this day.\n\"Venetians first\" was the first article of faith of these men, or\nrather it was to them a vital instinct. Their patriotism was a kind of\nmagnificent _amour propre_. No modern nation has felt a pride of\nstate so absorbing, so convinced, so transcendent: a pride which lives\nincarnate in the forms and faces of the Venetian senators who look\nserenely down on us from the walls of the Art Gallery out of the\ncompany of kings, of saints, of angels, and of such as are higher than\nthe angels.\n\nA chance word or phrase now and then accidentally carries us back to\nRepublican times and institutions. The expression, \"Thy thought is not\nworth a _gazeta_,\" occurring in a love-song cited above, reminds us\nthat the term gazette is derived from a Venetian coin of that name,\nvalue three-quarters of a farthing, which was the fee charged for the\nprivilege of hearing read aloud the earliest venture in journalism, a\nmanuscript news-sheet issued once a month at Venice in the sixteenth\ncentury. The figure of speech, \"We must have fifty-seven,\" meaning,\n\"we are entering on a serious business,\" has its origin in the\nfifty-seven votes necessary to the passing of any weighty measure\nin the Venetian Senate. The Venetian adapter of Moliere's favourite\nditty, in lieu of preferring his sweetheart to the \"bonne ville de\nParis,\" prefers her to \"the Mint, the Arsenal, and the Bucentaur.\"\nEvery one is familiar with the quaint description of the outward\nglories of St Mark's Square:\n\n  In St Mark's Place three standards you descry,\n  And chargers four that seem about to fly;\n  There is a time-piece which appears a tower,\n  And there are twelve black men who strike the hour.\n\nSocial prejudices creep in where politics are almost excluded. A group\nof _Vilote_ relates to the feud--old as Venice--between the islanders\nof San Nicolo and the islanders of Castello, the two sections of the\ntown east of the Grand Canal, in the first of which stands St Mark's,\nin the last the arsenal. The best account of the two factions is\nembodied in an ancient poem celebrating the fight that rendered\nmemorable St Simon's Day, 1521. The anonymous writer tells his tale\nwith an impartiality that might be envied by greater historians, and\nhe ends by putting a canto of peaceable advice into the mouth of a\ndying champion, who urges his countrymen to dwell in harmony and love\none another as brothers. Are they not made of the same flesh and bone,\nchildren alike of St Mark and his State?\n\n  Tuti a la fin no semio patrioti,\n  Cresciu in sti campi, ste cale e cantoni?\n\nThe counsel was not taken, and the old rivalry continued unabated,\nfostered up to a certain point by the Republic, which saw in it,\namongst other things, a check on the power of the patricians. The\ntwo sides represented the aristocratic and democratic elements of\nthe population: the Castellani had wealth and birth and fine palaces,\ntheir upper classes monopolised the high offices of State, their lower\nclasses worked in the arsenal, served as pilots to the men-of-war, and\nacted as rowers in the Bucentaur. The better-to-do Nicoloti came off\nwith a share of the secondary employs, whilst the larger portion of\nthe San Nicolo folk were poor fishermen. But their sense of personal\ndignity was intense. They had a doge of their own, usually an old\nsailor, who on high days and holidays sat beside the \"renowned prince,\nthe Duke of Venice.\" This doge, or _Gastaldo dei Nicoloti_, was\nanswerable for the conduct of his people, of whom he was at once\nsuperior and equal. \"Ti voghi el dose et mi vogo col dose\" (\"You row\nthe doge, I row with the doge\"), a Nicoloto would say to his rival.\nIt is easy to see how the party spirit engendered by the old feud\nproduced a sentiment of independence in even the poorest members\nof the community, and how it thus became of great service to the\nRepublic. Its principal drawback was that of leading to hard blows,\nthe last occasion of its doing so being St Simon's Day, 1817, when a\nfierce local outbreak was severely suppressed by the Austrians. Since\nthen the contending forces have agreed to dwell in harmony; whether\nthey love one another as brothers is not so clear. There are songs\nstill sung in which mutual recrimination takes the form of too strong\nlanguage for ears polite. \"If a Nicoloto is born, a Count is born; if\na Castellan is born--set up the gallows,\" is the mildest dictum of a\nson of San Nicolo, to which his neighbour replies, \"When a Castellan\nis born, a god is born; when a Nicoloto is born, a brigand is born.\"\nThe feud lingers on even in the matter of love. \"Who is that youth who\npasses so often?\" inquires a girl; \"if it be a Castellan, bid him be\noff; if it be a Nicoloto, bid him come in.\"\n\nOn the night of the Redeemer (in July) still takes place what was\nperhaps one of the most ancient of Venetian customs. A fantastic\nillumination, a bridge of boats, a people's ball, a prize-giving to\nthe best gondolas, a promiscuous wandering about the public gardens,\nthese form some of the features of the festival. But its most\nremarkable point is the expedition to the Lido at three o'clock in the\nmorning to see the dawn. As the sun rises from his cradle of eastern\ngold, he is greeted by the shout of thousands. Many of the youths leap\ninto the water and disport themselves like wild creatures of the sea.\n\nA word in conclusion as to the dialect in which Venetian songs are\ncomposed. The earliest specimen extant consists in the distich--\n\n  Lom po far e die in pensar\n  E vega quelo che li po inchiontrar,\n\nwhich is to be read on the facade of St Mark's, opposite the ducal\npalace. The meaning is, Look before you leap--an adage well suited\nto the people who had the reputation of being the most prudent in the\nworld. This inscription belongs to the twelfth century. There used to\nbe a song sung at Ascension-tide on the occasion of the marriage of\nthe doge with the Adriatic, of which the signification of the words\nwas lost and only the sound preserved. It is a pity that it was never\nwritten out phonetically; for modern scholars would probably have\nproved equal to the task of interpreting it, even as they have given\nus the secret of the runes on the neck of the Greek lion at the\narsenal. We owe to Dante a line of early Venetian--one of those\ntantalising fragments of dialect poems in his posthumous work, _De\nVulgari Eloquentia_--fragments perhaps jotted down with the intention\nof copying the full stanzas had he lived to finish the treatise.\nStudents have long been puzzled by Dante's judgment on the Venetian\ndialect, which he said was so harsh that it made the conversation of\na woman resemble that of a man. The greatest master of the Italian\ntongue was ruthless in his condemnation of its less perfect forms,\nto the knowledge of which he was all the same indebted in no slight\ndegree. But it must not be overlooked that the question in Dante's day\nwas whether Italy should have a language or whether the nation should\ngo on oscillating between Latin and _patois_. For reasons patriotic\nand political quite as much as literary, Dante's heart was set on the\nadoption of one \"illustrious, cardinal, aulic and polite\" speech by\nthe country at large, and to that end he contributed incalculably,\nthough less by his treatise than by his poem. The involuntary hatred\nof _patois_ as an outward sign of disunion has reappeared again in\nsome of those who in our own time have done and suffered most for\nunited Italy. Thus I once heard Signor Benedetto Cairoli say: \"When\nwe were children, our mother would on no account let us speak anything\nbut good Italian.\" It is possible that Dante's strong feeling on the\nsubject made him unjust. It is also possible that the Venetian and the\nother dialects have undergone a radical change, though this is not so\nlikely as may at first be supposed. A piece of nonsense written in the\nseventeenth century gives an admirable idea of what the popular idiom\nwas then and is now:\n\n  Mi son tanto inamorao\n    In dona Nina mia vesina\n    Che me da gran disciplina,\n    Che me vedo desparao.\n            Gnao bao, bao gnao,\n            Mi son tanto inamorao!\n\n  Mi me sento tanti afani\n    (Tuti i porto per so amore!)\n    Che par proprio che sia cani\n    Ch'al mi cor fazza brusore;\n    Che da tute quante l'ore\n    Mi me sento passionao.\n            Gnao bao, bao gnao,\n            Mi son tanto inamorao!\n\nIn most respects Venetian would approach closely to standard Italian\nwere it not for the pronunciation; yet to the uneducated Venetian,\nItalian sounds very strange. A maid-servant who had picked up a few\npurely Italian words, was found to be under the delusion that she had\nbeen learning English. The Venetian is unable to detect a foreigner by\nhis accent. An English traveller had been talking for some while to a\nwoman of Burano, when she asked in all seriousness, \"Are you a Roman?\"\nA deficiency of grammar, a richness in expressive colloquialisms, and\nthe possession of certain terms of Greek origin, constitute the main\nfeatures of the Venetian dialect as it is known to us. It was used by\nthe Republic in the affairs of state, and it was generally understood\nthroughout Italy, because, as Evelyn records, all the world repaired\nto Venice \"to see the folly and madnesse of the Carnevall.\" With the\nexception of Dante, every one seems to have been struck by its merits,\nof which the chief, to modern ears, are vivacity and an exceeding\nsoftness. It can boast of much elegant lettered poetry, as well as of\nGoldoni's best comedies. To the reading of the latter when a child,\nAlfieri traced his particular partiality for \"the jargon of the\nlagunes.\" Byron declared that its _naivete_ was always pleasant in\nthe mouth of a woman, and George Sand mentions it approvingly as \"ce\ngentil parler Venitien, fait a ce qu'il me semble pour la bouche des\nenfants.\"\n\n\n\n\nSICILIAN FOLK-SONG.\n\n\nL'Isola del Fuoco--the Isle of Fire, as Dante named it--is singularly\nrich in poetic associations. Acis, the sweet wood-born stream,\nGalatea, the calm of the summer sea, and how many more flower-children\nof a world which had not learned to \"look before and after,\" of a\npeople who deified nature and naturalised deity, and felt at one with\nboth, send us thence across the ages the fragrance of their immortal\nyouth. Our mind's magic lantern shows us Sappho and Alcaeus welcomed\nin Sicily as guests, Pindar writing his Sicilian Odes, the mighty\nAEschylus, burdened always perhaps with a sorrow--untainted by fretful\nanger--because of that slight, sprung from the enthusiasm for the\nyounger poet, the heat of politics, we know not what, which drove him\nforth from Athens: yet withal solaced by the homage paid to his grey\nhairs, and not ill-content to die\n\n  On the bank of Gela productive of corn.\n\nTo Sicily we trace the germs of Greek comedy, and the addition of the\nepode to the strophe and anti-strophe. We remember the story of how,\nwhen the greatness of Athens had gone to wreck off Syracuse, a few\nof the starving slaves in the _latomiae_ were told they were free men,\nthanks to their ability to recite passages from Euripides; we remember\nalso that new story, narrated in English verse, of the adventure which\nbefell the Rhodian maid Balaustion, on these Sicilian shores, and of\nthe good stead stood her by the knowledge of _Alcestis_. We think\nof Sicily as the birth-place of the Idyllists, the soil which bore\nthrough them an aftermath of Grecian song thick with blossom as the\nlast autumn yield of Alpine meads. Then by a strange transformation\nscene we get a glimpse of Arabian Kasides hymning the beauties of the\nConca d'Oro, and as these disappear, arise the forms of the poets of\nwhom Petrarch says--\n\n  ... i Sicilian!\n  Che fur gia primi\n\n--those wonderful poet discoverers, more wonderful as discoverers than\nas poets, who found out that a new music was to be made in a tongue,\nnot Latin, nor yet Provencal--a tongue which had grown into life under\nthe double foster-fathership of Arabian culture and Norman rule, the\n_lingua cortigiana_ of the palaces of Palermo, the \"common speech\" of\nDante. When we recollect how the earliest written essays in Italian\nwere composed in what once was styled Sicilian, it seems a trifle\nunfair for the practical adaptator--in this case as often happens in\nthe case of individuals--to have so completely borne away the glory\nfrom the original inventor as to cause the latter to be all but\nforgotten. We now hear only of the \"sweet Tuscan tongue,\" and even\nthe pure pronunciation of educated Sicilians is not admitted without\na comment of surprise. But whilst the people of Tuscany quickly\nassimilated the _lingua cortigiana_ and made it their own, the people\nof Sicily stuck fast to their old wild-flower language, and left\nungathered the gigantic lily nurtured in Palermitan hot-houses and\ncarried by the great Florentine into heaven and hell. They continued\nspeaking, not the Sicilian we call Italian, but the Sicilian we call\npatois--the Sicilian of the folk-songs. The study of Italic dialects\nis one by no means ill-calculated to repay the trouble bestowed\nupon it, and that from a point of view not connected with their\nphilological aspect. How far, or it may be I should say, how soon they\nwill die out, in presence of the political unity of the country, and\nof the general modern tendency towards the adoption of standard forms\nof language, it is not quite easy to decide. Were we not aware of the\nastonishing rapidity with which dialects, like some other things, may\ngive way when once the least breach is opened, we might suppose\nthat those of Italy were good for many hundred years. Even the\nupper classes have not yet abandoned them: it is said that there\nare deputies at Monte Citorio who find the flow of their ideas sadly\nbaulked by the parliamentary etiquette which expects them to be\ndelivered in Italian. And the country-people are still so strongly\nattached to their respective idioms as to incline them to believe\nthat they are the \"real right thing,\" to the disadvantage of all\ncompetitors. Not long ago, a Lombard peasant-woman employed as nurse\nto a neuralgic Sicilian gentleman who spoke as correctly as any\nTuscan, assured a third person with whom she chatted in her own\ndialect--it was at a bath establishment--that her patient did not know\na single word of Italian! But it is reported that in some parts of\nItaly the peasants are beginning to forget their songs; and when\na generation or two has lived through the aera of facile\ninter-communication that makes Reggio but two or three days' journey\nfrom Turin, when every full-grown man has served his term of military\nservice in districts far removed from his home, the vitality of the\nvarious dialects will be put to a severe test. Come when it may, the\nchange will have in it much that is desirable for Italy: of this there\ncan be no question; nor can it be disputed that as a whole standard\nItalian offers a more complete and plastic medium of expression than\nVenetian, or Neapolitan, or Sicilian. Nevertheless, in the mouth of\nthe people the local dialects have a charm which standard Italian has\nnot--a charm that consists in clothing their thought after a\nfashion which, like the national peasant costumes, has an essential\nsuitability to the purpose it is used for, and while wanting neither\ngrace nor richness, suggests no comparisons that can reflect upon it\nunfavourably. The naive ditty of a poet of Termini or Partinico is\ntoo much a thing _sui generis_ for it to suffer by contrast with the\nfaultless finish of a sonnet in _Vita di Madonna Laura_.\n\nSicily is notoriously richer in songs than any province of the\nmainland; Vigo collected 5000, and the number of those since written\ndown seems almost incredible. It has even been conjectured that Sicily\nwas the original fountain-head of Italian popular poetry, and that it\nis still the source of the greater part of the songs which circulate\nthrough Italy.[A] Songs that rhyme imperfectly in the Tuscan version\nhave been found correct when put into Sicilian, a fact which points\nto the island as their first home. Dr Pitre, however, deprecates\nsuch speculations as premature, and when so distinguished and so\nconscientious an investigator bids us suspend our judgment, we can do\nno better than to obey. What can be stated with confidence is, that\npopular songs are inveterate travellers, and fly from place to place,\nno one knows how, at much the same electrical rate as news spreads\namongst the people--a phenomenon of which the more we convince\nourselves that the only explanation is the commonplace one that lies\non the surface, the more amazing and even mysterious does it appear.\n\n    [Footnote A: \"Noi crediamo ... che il Canto popolare italiano\n    sia nativo di Sicilia. Ne con questo intendiamo asserire che\n    le plebi delle altre provincie sieno prive di poetica facolta,\n    e che non vi sieno poesie popolari sorte in altre regioni\n    italiane, ed ivi cresciute e di la diramate attorno. Ma\n    crediamo che, nella maggior parte des casi, il Canto abbia per\n    patria di origine l'Isola, e per patria di adozione la\n    Toscana: che, nato con veste di dialetto in Sicilia, in\n    Toscana abbia assunto forma illustre e comune, e con siffatta\n    veste novella sia migrato nelle altre provincie.\"--_La Poesia\n    Popolare Italiana: Studj di Alessandro d'Ancona_, p. 285.]\n\nAs regards the date of the origin of folk-songs in Sicily, the boldest\nguess possibly comes nearest the truth, and this takes us back to a\ntime before Theocritus. Cautious students rest satisfied with adducing\nundoubted evidence of their existence as early as the twelfth century,\nin the reign of William II., whose court was famed for \"good speakers\nin rhyme of _every condition_.\" Moreover, it is certain that Sicilian\nsongs had begun to travel orally and in writing to the Continent\nconsiderably before the invention of printing; and it is not unlikely\nthat many _canzuni_ now current in the island could lay claim to an\nantiquity of at least six or seven hundred years. Folk-songs change\nmuch less than might at first sight be expected in the course of their\ntransmission from father to son, from century to century; and some\namong the songs still popular in Sicily have been discovered written\ndown in old manuscripts in a form almost identical to that in which\nthey are sung to-day. Although the methodical collection of folk-songs\nis a thing but recently undertaken, the fact of there being such songs\nin Sicily was long ago perfectly well known. An English traveller\nwriting in the last century remarks, that \"the whole nation are poets,\neven the peasants, and a man stands a poor chance for a mistress that\nis not capable of celebrating her.\" He goes on to say, that happily in\nthe matter of serenades the obligations of a chivalrous lover are not\nso onerous as they were in the days of the Spaniards, when a fair\ndame would frown upon the most devoted swain who had not a cold in his\nhead--the presumed proof of his having dutifully spent the night \"with\nthe heavens for his house, the stars for his shelter, the damp earth\nfor his mattress, and for pillow a harsh thistle\"--to borrow the exact\nwords of a folk-poet.\n\nOne class of folk-songs may be fairly trusted to speak for themselves\nas to the date of their composition, namely, that which deals with\nhistorical facts and personages. Until lately the songs of Italy were\nbelieved, with the exception of Piedmont, to be of an exclusively\nlyrical character; but fresh researches, and, above all, the\nunremitting and enthusiastic efforts of Signor Salvatore\nSalomone-Marino, have brought to light a goodly quantity of Sicilian\nsongs in which the Greek, Arabian, Norman, and Angevin denominations\nall come in for their share of commemoration. And that the authors\nof these songs spoke of the present, not of the past, is a natural\ninference, when actual observation certifies that such is the\ninvariable custom of living folk-poets. For the people events soon\npass into a misty perspective, and the folk-poet is a sort of people's\njournalist; he makes his song as the contributor to a newspaper writes\nhis leading article, about the matter uppermost for the moment in\nmen's minds, whether it be important or trivial. In 1860 he sang\nof \"the bringers of the tricolor,\" the \"milli famusi guirreri,\" and\n\"Aribaldi lu libiraturi.\" In 1868 he joked over the grand innovation\nby which \"the poor folk of the piazza were sent to Paradise in a fine\ncoach,\" _i.e._, the substitution, by order of the municipality of\nPalermo, of first, second, and third class funeral cars in lieu of the\nold system of bearers. In 1870 he was very curious about the eclipse\nwhich had been predicted. \"We shall see if God confirms this news that\nthe learned tell us, of the war there is going to be between the moon\nand the sun,\" says he, discreetly careful not to tie himself down to\ntoo much faith or too much distrust. Then, when the eclipse has\nduly taken place, his admiration knows no bounds. \"What heads--what\nbeautiful minds God gives these learned men!\" he cries; \"what grace\nis granted to man that he can read even the thoughts of God!\" The\nFranco-German war inspired a great many poets, who displayed, at all\nevents in the first stages of the struggle, a strong predilection for\nthe German side. All these songs long survive the period of the events\nthey allude to, and help materially to keep their memory alive; but\nfor a new song to be composed on an incident ten years old, would\nsimply argue that its author was not a folk-poet at all, in the strict\nsense of the word. The great majority of the historical songs are\nshort, detached pieces, bearing no relation to each other; but now and\nthen we come upon a group of stanzas which suggest the idea of their\nhaving once formed part of a consecutive whole; and in one instance,\nthat of the historical legend of the Baronessa di Carini, the\nassembled fragments approach the proportions of a popular epic. But\nit is doubtful whether this poem--for so we may call it--is thoroughly\npopular in origin, though the people have completely adopted it, and\naccount it \"the most beautiful and most dolorous of all the histories\nand songs,\" thinking all the more of it in consequence of the profound\nsecrecy with which it has been preserved out of fear of provoking\nthe wrath of a powerful Sicilian family, very roughly handled by its\nauthor.\n\nOf religious songs there are a vast number in Sicily, and the stock is\nperpetually fed by the pious rhyme tournaments held in celebration of\nnotable saints' days at the village fairs. On such occasions the image\nor relics of the saints are exhibited in the public square, and\nthe competitors, the assembled poetic talent of the neighbourhood,\nproceed, one after the other, to improvise verses in his honour. If\nthey succeed in gaining the suffrage of their audience, which may\namount to five or six thousand persons, they go home liberally\nrewarded. Along with these saintly eulogiums may be mentioned a style\nof composition more ancient than edifying--the Sicilian parodies.\nA pious or complimentary song is travestied into a piece of coarse\nabuse, or a sample of that unblushing, astounding irreverence which\nsometimes startles the most hardened sceptic, travelling in countries\nwhere the empire of Catholicism has been least shaken--in Tyrol,\nfor instance, and in Spain. We cannot be sure whether the Sicilian\nparodist deliberately intends to be profane, or is only indifferent as\nto what weapons he uses in his eagerness to cast ridicule upon a rival\nversifier--the last hypothesis seems to me to be the most plausible;\nbut it takes nothing from the significance of his profanity as it\nstands. It is pleasant to turn from these several sections of Sicilian\nverse, which, though valuable in helping us to know the people from\nwhom they spring, for the most part have but small merits when judged\nas poetry, to the stream of genuine song which flows side by side with\nthem: a stream, fresh, clear, pure: a poesy always true in its artless\nart, generally bright and ingenious in its imagery, sometimes tersely\nfelicitous in its expression. In his love lyrics, and but rarely save\nin them, the Sicilian _popolano_ rises from the rhymester to the poet.\n\nThe most characteristic forms of the love-songs of Sicily are those of\nthe _ciuri_, called in Tuscany _stornelli_, and the _canzuni_, called\nin Tuscany _rispetti_. The _ciuri_ (flowers) are couplets or triplets\nbeginning with the name of a flower, with which the other line\nor lines should rhyme. They abound throughout the island, and\nnotwithstanding the poor estimation in which the peasants hold them,\nand the difficulty of persuading them that they are worth putting\non record, a very dainty compliment--just the thing to figure on\na valentine--may often be found compressed into their diminutive\ncompass. To turn such airy nothings into a language foreign and\nuncongenial to them, is like manipulating a soap-bubble: the bubble\nvanishes, and we have only a little soapy water left in the hollow\nof our hand: a simile which unhappily is not far from holding good of\nattempts at translating any species of Italian popular poetry. It\nis true that in _Fra Lippo Lippi_ there are two or three charming\nimitations of the _stornello_; but, then, Mr Browning is the poet who,\nof all others, has got most inside of the Italian mind. Here is an\n_aubade_, which will give a notion of the unsubstantial stuff the\n_ciuri_ are made of:\n\n  Rosa marina,\n  Lucinu l'alba e la stidda Diana:\n  Lu cantu e fattu, addui, duci Rusina.\n\n\"Rose of the sea, the dawn and the star Diana are shining: the song is\ndone, farewell sweet Rosina.\"\n\nOne of these flower-poets, invoking the Violet by way of heading,\ntells his love that \"all men who look on her forget their sorrows;\"\nanother takes his oath that she outrivals sun, and moon, and stars.\n\"Jasmine of Araby,\" cries a third, \"when thou art not near, I am\nconsumed by rage.\" A fourth says, \"White floweret, before thy door I\nmake a great weeping.\" A fifth, night and day, bewails his evil fate.\nA sixth observes that he has been singing for five hours, but that\nhe might just as well sing to the wind. A seventh feels the thorns\nof jealousy. An eighth asks, \"Who knows if Rosa will not listen to\nanother lover?\" A ninth exclaims,\n\n  Flower of the night,\n  Whoever wills me ill shall die to-night!\n\nWith which ominous sentiment I will leave the _ciuri_, and pass on\nto the yet more interesting _canzuni_: little poems, usually in eight\nlines, of which there are so many thousand graceful specimens that it\nis embarrassing to have to make a selection.\n\nDespite the wide gulf which separates lettered from illiterate poetry,\nit is curious to note the not unfrequent coincidence between the\nthought of the ignorant peasant bard and that of cultured poets. In\nparticular, we are now and then reminded of the pretty conceits of\nHerrick, and also of the blithe paganism, the happy unconsciousness\nthat \"Pan is dead,\" which lay in the nature of that most incongruous\nof country parsons. Thus we find a parallel to \"Gather ye Rosebuds:\"\n\n  Sweet, let us pick the fresh and opening rose,\n    Which doth each charm of form and hue display:\n  Hard by the margent of yon font it blows,\n    Mid guarding thorns and many a tufted spray;\n  And in yourself while springtide freshly glows,\n    Dear heart, with some sweet bloom my love repay:\n  Soon winter comes, all flowers to nip and close,\n    Nor love itself can hinder time's decay.\n\nNo poet is more determined to deal out his compliments in a liberal,\nopen-handed way than is the Sicilian. While the Venetians and the\nTuscans are content with claiming seven distinctive beauties for\nthe object of their affection, the Sicilian boldly asserts that his\n_bedda_ possesses no less than thirty-three _biddizzi_. In the same\nmanner, when he is about sending his salutations, he sends them\nwithout stint:\n\n  Many the stars that sparkle in the sky,\n    Many the grains of sand and pebbles small;\n  And in the ocean's plains the finny fry\n    And leaves that flourish in the woods and fall,\n  Countless earth's human hordes that live and die,\n    The flowers that wake to life at April's call,\n  And all the fruits the summer heats supply--\n    My greetings sent to thee out-number all.\n\nOn some rare occasions the incident which suggested the song may be\ngathered from the lips of the person who recites it. In one case we\nare told that a certain sailor, on his return from a long voyage,\nhastened to the house of his betrothed, to bid her prepare for the\nwedding. But he was met by the mother-in-law elect, who told him to go\nhis way, for his love was dead--the truth being that she had meanwhile\nmarried a shoemaker. One fine day the disconsolate sailor had the not\nunmixed gratification of seeing her alive and well, looking out of her\nhusband's house, and that night he sang her a reproachful serenade,\ninquiring wherefore she had hidden from him, that though dead to him\nshe lived for another? This deceived mariner must have been a\nrather exceptional individual, for although there are baker-poets,\ncarpenter-poets, waggoner-poets, poets in short of almost every branch\nof labour and humble trade, a sailor-poet is not often to be heard of.\nDr Pitre remarks that sailors pick up foreign songs in their voyages,\nmostly English and American, and come home inclined to look down upon\nthe folk-songs and singers of their native land.\n\nThe serenades and aubades are among the most delicate and elegant of\nall the _canzuni d'amuri_; this is one, which contains a favourite\nfancy of peasant lovers:\n\n  Life of my life, who art my spirit and soul,\n    By no suspicions be nor doubts oppressed,\n  Love me, and scorn false jealousy's control--\n    I not a thousand hearts have in my breast,\n  I had but one, and gave to thee the whole.\n    Come then and see, if thou the truth wouldst test,\n  Instead of my own heart, my love, my soul,\n    Thou wilt thine image find within my breast!\n\nAnother poet treats somewhat the same idea in a drolly realistic way--\n\n  Last night I dreamt we both were dead,\n  And, love! beside each other laid.\n  Doctors and Surgeons filled the place\n  To make autopsy of the case--\n  Knives, scissors, saws, with eager zest\n  Of each laid open wide the breast:--\n  Dumfounded then was every one,\n  Yours held two hearts, but mine had none!\n\nThe _canzuni_ differ very much as to adherence to the strict laws of\nrhyme and metre; more often than not assonants are readily accepted in\nplace of rhymes, and their entire absence has been thought to cast a\nsuspicion of education on the author of a song. One truly illiterate\nliving folk-poet was, however, heard severely to criticise some of the\nprinted _canzuni_ which were read aloud to him, on just this ground of\nirregularity of metre and rhyme. His name is Salvatore Calafiore, and\nhe was employed a few years ago in a foundry at Palermo, where he was\nknown among the workmen as \"the poet.\" Being very poor, and having a\nyoung wife and family to support, he bethought himself of appealing to\nthe proprietor of the foundry for a rise of wages, but the expedient\nwas hazardous: those who made complaints ran a great chance of getting\nnothing by it save dismissal. So he offered up his petition in a\nlittle poem to this effect: \"As the poor little hungry serpent comes\nout of its hole in search of food, heeding not the risk of being\ncrushed, thus Calafiore, timorous and hard-pressed, O most just sir,\nasks of you help!\" Calafiore was once asked what he knew about the\nclassical characters whose names he introduced into his poems: he\nanswered that some one had told him of them who knew little more of\nthem than he did. He added that \"Jove was God of heaven, Apollo god of\nmusic, Venus the planet of love, Cicero a good orator.\" On the whole,\nthe folk-poets are not very lavish in mythological allusion; when they\ndo make it, it is ordinarily fairly appropriate. \"Wherever thou dost\nplace thy feet,\" runs a Borgetto _canzuna_, \"carnations and roses,\nand a thousand divers flowers, are born. My beautiful one, the goddess\nVenus has promised thee seven and twenty things--new gardens, new\nheavens, new songs of birds in the spot where thou dost take thy\nrest.\" The Siren is one of the ancient myths most in favour: at\nPartinico they sing:\n\n  Within her sea-girt home the Siren dwells\n    And lures the spell-bound sailor with her lay,\n  Amid the shoals the fated bark compels\n    Or holds upon the reef a willing prey,\n  None ever 'scape her toils, while sinks and swells\n    Her rhythmic chant at close and break of day--\n  Thou, Maiden, art the Siren of the sea,\n  Who with thy songs dost hold and fetter me.\n\nIt is rarely indeed that we can trace a couple of these lyrics to the\nsame brain--we may not say \"to the same hand,\" for the folk-poet's\nhand is taken up with striking the anvil or guiding the plough; to\nmore intellectual uses he does not put it--yet expressing as they do\nemotions which are not only the same at bottom, but are here felt and\nregarded in precisely the same way, there results so much unity of\ndesign and execution, that, as we read, unawares the songs weave\nthemselves into slight pastoral idylls--typical peasant romances in\nwhich real _contadini_ speak to us of the new life wrought in them\nby love. Even the repeated mention of the Sicilian diminutives of\nthe names of Salvatore and Rosina helps the illusion that a thread of\npersonal identity connects together many of the fugitive _canzuni_.\nThus we are tempted to imagine Turiddu and Rusidda as a pair of lovers\ndwelling in the sunny Conca d'Oro--he \"so sweet and beautiful a youth,\nthat God himself must surely have fashioned him\"--a youth with \"black\nand laughing eyes, and a little mouth from whence drops honey:\" she a\nmaiden of\n\n      ... quattordicianni,\n  L'occhi cilestri e li capiddi biunni--\n\n\"fourteen years, celestial eyes, blonde hair;\" to see her long tresses\n\"shining like gold spun by the angels,\" one would think \"that she\nhad just fallen out of Paradise.\" \"She is fairer than the foam of the\nsea\"--\n\n  \"My little Rose in January born,\n    Born in the month of cold and drifted snow,\n  Its whiteness stays thy beauty to adorn,\n    Nought than thy velvet skin more white can show.\n  Thou art the star that shines, tho' bright the morn,\n    And casts on all around a silver glow.\"\n\nBut Rusidda's mother will have nothing to say to poor Turiddu; he\ncomplains, \"Ah! God, what grief to have a tongue and not to be able to\nspeak; to see her and dare not make any sign! Ah, God in heaven, and\nVirgin Mary, tell me what I am to do? I look at her, she looks at me,\nneither I nor she can say a word!\" Then an idea strikes him; he gets a\nfriend to take her a message: \"When we pass each other in the street,\nwe must not let the folk see that we are in love, but you will lower\nyour eyes and I will lower my head; this shall be our way of saluting\none another. Every saint has his day, we must await ours.\" Encouraged\nby this stratagem, Turiddu grows bold, and one dark night, when none\ncan see who it is, he serenades his \"little Rose:\"\n\n  \"Sleep, sleep, my hope, yea sleep, nor be afraid,\n    Sleep, sleep, my hope, in confidence serene,\n  For if we both in the same scales be weighed,\n    But little difference will be found between.\n  Have you for me unfeigned love displayed,\n    My love for you shall greater still be seen.\n  If we could both in the same scales be weighed,\n    But small the difference would be found between.\"\n\nHe does not think the song nearly good enough for her: \"I know not\nwhat song I can sing that is worthy of you,\" he says: he wishes he\nwere \"a goldfinch or a nightingale, and had no equal for singing;\" or,\nbetter still, he would fain \"have an angel come and sing her a song\nthat had never before been heard of out Paradise,\" for in Paradise\nalone can a song be found appropriate to her. One day (it is Rusidda's\nfete-day), Turiddu makes a little poem, and says in it: \"All in roses\nwould I be clad, for I am in love with roses; I would have palaces\nand little houses of roses, and a ship with roses decked, and a little\nstaircase all of roses, which I the fortunate one would ascend; but\nere I go up it, I wish to say to you, my darling, that for you I\nlanguish.\" He watches her go to church: \"how beautiful she is! Her air\nis that of a noble lady!\" The mother lingers behind with her gossips,\nand Turiddu whispers to Rusidda, \"All but the crown you look like a\nqueen.\" She answers: \"If there rode hither a king with his crown who\nsaid, 'I should like to place it on your head,' I should say this\nlittle word, 'I want Turiddu, I want no crown.'\" Turiddu tells her he\nis sick from melancholy: \"it is a sickness which the doctors cannot\ncure, and you and I both suffer from it. It will only go away the day\nwe go to church together.\"\n\nBut there seems no prospect of their getting married; Turiddu sends\nhis love four sighs, \"e tutti quattru suspiri d'amuri:\"\n\n  \"Four sighs I breathe and send thee,\n    Which from my heart love forces;\n  Health with the first attend thee,\n    The next our love discourses;\n  The third a kiss comes stealing;\n    The fourth before thee kneeling;\n  And all hard fate accusing\n  Thee to my sight refusing.\"\n\nAnd now he has to go upon a long journey; but before he starts he\ncontrives one meeting with Rusidda. \"Though I shall no longer see\nyou, we yet may hope, for death is the only real parting,\" he says. \"I\nwould have you constant, firm, and faithful; I would have you faithful\neven unto death.\" She answers, \"If I should die, still would my spirit\nstay with you.\" A year passes; on Rusidda's _festa_ a letter arrives\nfrom Turiddu: \"Go, letter mine, written in my blood, go to my dear\ndelight; happy paper! you will touch the white hand of my love. I am\nfar away, and cannot speak to her; paper, do you speak for me.\"\n\nAt last Turiddu returns--but where is Rusidda? \"Ye stars that are in\nthe infinite heavens, give me news of my love!\"\n\nThrough the night \"he wanders like the moon,\" he wanders seeking his\nlove. In his path he encounters Brown Death. \"Seek her no more,\" says\nthis one; \"I have her under the sod. If you do not believe me, my fine\nfellow, go to San Francesco, and take up the stone of the sepulchre:\nthere you will find her.\" ... Alas! \"love begins with sweetness and\nends in bitterness.\"\n\nThe Sicilian's \"Beautiful ideal\" would seem to be the white rose\nrather than the red, in accordance, perhaps, with the rule that makes\nthe uncommon always the most prized; or it may be, from a perception\nof that touch of the unearthly, that pale radiance which gives the\nfair Southerner a look of closer kinship with the pensive Madonna\ngazing out of her aureole in the wayside shrine, than with the dark\ndamsels of the more predominant type. Some such angelical association\nattached to golden heads has possibly disposed the Sicilian\nfolk-poet towards thinking too little of the national black eyes and\nolive-carnation colouring. Not that brunettes are wholly without\ntheir singers; one of these has even the courage to say that since his\n_bedda_ is brown and the moon is white, it is plain that the moon must\nleave the field vanquished. One dark beauty of Termini shows that she\nis quite equal to standing up for herself. \"You say that I am black?\"\nshe cries, \"and what of that? Black writing looks well on white paper,\nblack spices are worth more than white curds, and while dusky wine\nis drunk in a glass goblet, the snow melts away unregarded in the\nditch.\"[1] But the apologetic, albeit spirited tone of this protest,\nindicates pretty clearly that the popular voice gives the palm to\nmilk-white and snowy faced maidens; the possessors of _capiddi biunni_\nand _capidduzzi d'oru_ have no need to defend their charms, a hundred\ncanzuni proclaim them irresistible. \"Before everything I am enamoured\nof thy blonde tresses,\" says one lyrist. The luxuriant hair of the\nSicilian women is proverbial. A story is told how, when once Palermo\nwas about to surrender to the Saracens because there were no more\nbowstrings in the town, an abundant supply was suddenly produced by\nthe patriotic dames cutting off their long locks and turning them to\nthis purpose. The deed so inspired the Palermitan warriors that they\nspeedily drove the enemy back, and the siege was raised. A gallant\npoet adds: \"The hair of our ladies is still employed in the same\noffice, but now it discharges no other shafts but those of Cupid, and\nthe only cords it forms are cords of love.\"\n\nIn the early morning, almost all the year round the women may be\nseen sitting before their doors undoing and doing up again this long\nabundant hair. The chief part of their domestic work they perform out\nin the sunshine; one thing only, but that the most important of all,\nhas to be done in the house--the never finished task of weaving the\nclothes of the family. From earliest girlhood to past middle age the\nSicilian women spend many hours every day at the loom. A woman\nof eighty, Rosa Cataldi of Borgetto, made the noble boast to\nSalomone-Marino: \"I have clothed with stuff woven by my hands from\nfourteen to fifty years, myself, my brothers, my children, and their\nchildren.\" A girl who cannot, or will not, weave is not likely to\nfind a husband. As they ply the shuttle, the women hardly cease from\nsinging, and many, and excellent also, are the songs composed in\npraise of the active workers. The girl, not yet affianced, who is\nweaving perhaps her modest marriage clothes, may hear, coming up from\nthe street, the first avowal of love:\n\n        Ciuri d'aranci.\n  Bedda, tu tessi e tessennu mi vinci;\n  Bedda, tu canti, e lu me' cori chianci.\n\nIt has been said that love begins with sweetness and ends in\nbitterness. What a fine world it would be were Brown Death the only\nagent in the bitter end of love! It is not so. Rusidda, who dies, is\npossibly more fortunate than Rusidda who is married. When bride\nand bridegroom return from the marriage rite, the husband sometimes\nsolemnly strikes his wife in presence of the assembled guests as a\nsign of his henceforth unlimited authority. The symbol has but too\ngreat appropriateness. Even in what may be called a happy marriage,\nthere is a formality akin to estrangement, once the knot is tied.\nHusband and wife say \"voi\" to each other, talking to a third person,\nthey speak of one another as \"he\" and \"she,\" as \"mio cristiano,\" and\n\"mia cristiana,\" never as \"my husband\" and \"my wife.\" The wife sits\ndown to table with the husband, but she scrupulously waits for him to\nbegin first, and takes tiny mouthfuls as if she were ashamed of eating\nbefore him. Then, if the husband be out of humour, or if he thinks\nthat the wife does not work hard enough (an \"enough\" which can\nnever be reached), the nuptial blow is repeated in sad and miserable\nearnest. The woman will not even weep; she bears all in silence,\nsaying meekly afterwards, \"We women are always in the wrong, the\nhusband is the husband, he has a right even to kill us since we live\nby him.\" These things have been recorded by one who loves the Sicilian\npeasant, and who has defended him against many unfounded charges. A\nhard case it would be for wedded Rusidda if she had not her songs and\nthe sun to console her.\n\nAll the _canzuni_ that have been quoted are, so far as can be judged,\nof strictly popular origin, nor is there any sign of continental\nderivation in their wording or shape. Several, however, are the\ncommon property of most of the Italian provinces. There is a charming\nVicentine version of \"The Siren,\" and the \"Four Sighs\" makes its\nappearance in Tuscany under a dress of pure Italian. Has Sicily,\nthen, a right to the honour of their invention? There is a\nstrong presumption that it has. On the other hand, there are some\nSicilianized songs of plainly foreign birth, which shows that if the\nisland gave much to the peninsula, it has had at least something back\nin return. There is a third category, comprising the songs of the\nLombard colonies of Piazza and San Fratello, which have a purely\naccidental connection with Sicily. The founders of this community were\nLombards or Longobards, who were attracted to Sicily somewhere in\nthe eleventh century, either by the fine climate and the demand for\nsoldiers of fortune, or by the marriage of Adelaide of Monferrato with\nCount Roger of Hauteville. But what is far more curious than how or\nwhy they came, is the circumstance of the extraordinary isolation in\nwhich they seem to have lived, and their preservation to this day of\na dialect analogous with that spoken at Monferrato. In this dialect\nthere exist a good many songs, but a full collection of them has yet\nto be made.\n\nBesides the _ciuri_ and _canzuni_, there is another style of\nlove-song, very highly esteemed by the Sicilian peasantry, and that\nis the _aria_. When a peasant youth serenades his _'nnamurata_ with an\n_aria_, he pays her by common consent the most consummate compliment\nthat lies in his power. The _arii_ are songs of four or more\nstanzas--a form which is not so germane to the Sicilian folk-poet as\nthat of the _canzuna_; and, although he does use it occasionally,\nit may be suspected that he more often adapts a lettered or foreign\n_aria_ than composes a new one. An aria is nothing unless sung to a\nguitar accompaniment, and is heard to great advantage when performed\nby the barbers, who are in the habit of whiling away their idle hours\nwith that instrument. The Sicilian (lettered) poet, Giovanni Meli,\nhas written some admirable _arii_, many of which have become popular\nsongs.\n\nMeli's name is as oddly yoked with the title of _abate_ as Herrick's\nwith the designation of clergyman. He does not seem, as a matter of\nfact, to have ever been an _abate_ at all. Once, when dining with a\nperson influential at court, his host inquired why he did not ask to\nbe appointed to a rich benefice then vacant. \"Because,\" he replied, \"I\nam not a priest.\" And it appeared that when a young man he had adopted\nthe clerical habit for no other reason than that he intended to\npractise medicine, and wished to gain access to convents, and to make\nhimself acceptable to the nuns. It was not an uncommon thing to do.\nThe public generally dubbed him with the ecclesiastical title. Not\nlong before his death, in 1815, he actually assumed the lesser orders,\nand in true Sicilian fashion, wrote some verses to his powerful friend\nto beg him to get him preferment, but he died too soon after to profit\nby the result. The Sicilians are very proud of Meli. It is for them\nalone probably to find much pleasure in his occasional odes--to others\ntheir noble sentiments will be rather suggestive of the _sinfonia\neroica_ played on a flute; but the charm and lightness of his\nAnacreontic poems must be recognised by all who care for poetry. He\nhad a nice feeling for nature too, as is shown in a sonnet of rare\nbeauty:\n\n  Ye gentle hills, with intercepting vales,\n      Ye rocks with musk and clinging ivy dight;\n  Ye sparkling falls of water, silvery pale,\n      Still meres, and brooks that babble in the light;\n  Deep chasms, wooded steeps that heaven assail,\n      Unfruitful rushes, broom with blossoms bright,\n  And ancient trunks, encased in gnarled mail,\n      And caves adorned with crystal stalactite;\n  Thou solitary bird of plaintive song,\n      Echo that all dost hear, and then repeat,\n  Frail vines upheld by stately elms and strong,\n      And silent mist, and shade, and dim retreat;\n  Welcome me! tranquil scenes for which I long--\n      The friend of haunts where peace and quiet meet.\n\nI must not omit to say a word about a class of songs which, in\nSicily as elsewhere, affords the most curious illustration of the\nuniversality of certain branches of folk-lore--I mean the nursery\nrhymes. One instance of this will serve for all. Sicilian nurses play\na sort of game on the babies' features, which consists in lightly\ntouching nose, mouth, eyes, &c., giving a caressing slap to the chin,\nand repeating at the same time--\n\n  Varvaruttedu,\n  Vucca d'aneddu,\n  Nasu affilatu,\n  Occhi di stiddi,\n  Frunti quatrata,\n  E te' cca 'na timpulata!\n\nNow this rhyme has not only its counterpart in the local dialect of\nevery Italian province, but also in most European languages. In France\nthey have it:\n\n  Beau front,\n  Petits yeux,\n  Nez cancan,\n  Bouche d'argent,\n  Menton fleuri,\n  Chichirichi.\n\nWe find a similar doggerel in Germany, and in England, as most people\nknow, there are at least two versions, one being--\n\n  Eye winker,\n  Tom Tinker,\n    Nose dropper.\n  Mouth eater,\n    Chinchopper,\n    Chinchopper.\n\nOf more intrinsic interest than this ubiquitous old nurse's nonsense\nare the Sicilian cradle songs, in some of which there may also\nbe traced a family likeness with the corresponding songs of other\nnations. As soon as the little Sicilian gets up in the morning he is\nmade to say--\n\n  While I lay in my bed five saints stood by;\n  Three at the head, two at the foot--in the midst was Jesus Christ.\n\nThe Greek-speaking peasants of Terra d'Otranto have a song somewhat\nafter the same plan:\n\n    I lay me down to sleep in my little bed; I lay me down to\n    sleep with my Mamma Mary: the Mamma Mary goes hence and leaves\n    me Christ to keep me company.\n\nVery tender is the four-line Sicilian hushaby, in which the proud\nmother says--\n\n    How beautiful my son is in his swaddling clothes; just think\n    what he will be when he is big! Sleep, my babe, for the angel\n    passes: he takes from thee heaviness, and he leaves thee\n    slumber.\n\nThere is in Vigo's collection a lullaby so exquisite in its blended\nechoes from the cradle and the grave that it makes one wish for two\ngreat masters in the pathos of childish things, such as Blake and\nSchumann, to translate and set it to music. It is called \"The Widow.\"\n\n  Sweet, my child, in slumber lie,\n    Father's dead, is dead and gone.\n    Sleep then, sleep, my little son,\n  Sleep, my son, and lullaby.\n\n  Thou for kisses dost not cry,\n    Which thy cheeks he heaped upon.\n    Sleep then, sleep, my pretty one,\n  Sleep, my child, and lullaby.\n\n  We are lonely, thou and I,\n    And with grief and fear I faint.\n    Sleep then, sleep, my little saint,\n  Sleep, my child, and lullaby.\n\n  Why dost weep? No father nigh.\n    Ah, my God! tears break his rest.\n    Darling, nestle to my breast,\n  Sleep, my child, and lullaby.\n\nVery scant information is to be had regarding the Sicilian folk-poets\nof the past; with one exception their names and personalities have\nalmost wholly slipped out of the memory of the people, and that\nexception is full three parts a myth. If you ask a Sicilian popolano\nwho was the chief and master of all rustic poets, he will promptly\nanswer, \"Pietro Fullone;\" and he will tell you a string of stories\nabout the poetic quarry-workman, dissolute in youth, devout in\nold age, whose fame was as great as his fortune was small, and who\naddressed a troop of admiring strangers who had travelled to Palermo\nto visit him, and were surprised to find him in rags, in the following\ndignified strain:\n\n  Beneath these pilgrim weeds so coarse and worn\n    A heart may still be found of priceless worth.\n  The rose is ever coupled to the thorn.\n    The spotless lily springs from blackest earth.\n  Rubies and precious stones are only born\n    Amidst the rugged rocks, uncouth and swarth.\n  Then wonder not though till the end I wear\n  Nought but this pilgrim raiment poor and bare.\n\nUnfortunately nothing is more sure than that the real Pietro Fullone,\nwho lived in the 17th century, and published some volumes of poetry,\nmostly religious, had as little to do with this legendary Fullone as\ncan well be imagined. It is credible that he may have begun life as\na quarry workman and ignorant poet, as tradition reports; but it is\nneither credible that a tithe of the _canzuna_ attributed to him\nare by the same author as the writer of the printed and distinctly\nlettered poems which bear his name, nor that the bulk of the anecdotes\nwhich profess to relate to him have any other foundation than that of\npopular fiction. But though we hear but little, and cannot trust the\nlittle we hear, of the folk-poet of times gone by, for us to\nbecome intimately acquainted with him, we have only to go to his\nrepresentative, who lives and poetizes at the present moment. In\nthis or that Sicilian hamlet there is a man known by the name of \"the\nPoet,\" or perhaps \"the Goldfinch.\" He is completely illiterate and\nbelongs to the poorest class; he is a blacksmith, a fisherman, or\na tiller of the soil. If he has the gift of improvisation, his\nfellow-villagers have the satisfaction of hearing him applauded by the\nGreat Public--the dwellers in all the surrounding hamlets assembled at\nthe fair on St John's Eve. Or it may be he is of a meditative turn of\nmind, and makes his poetry leisurely as he lies full length under\nthe lemon-trees taking his noontide rest. Should you pass by, it is\nunlikely he will give himself the trouble of lifting his eyes: He\ncould not say the alphabet to save his life; but the beautiful earth\nand skies and sea which he has looked on every day since he was born\nhave taught him some things not learnt in school. The little poem he\nhas made in his head is indeed a humble sort of poetry, but it is not\nunworthy of the praise it gets from the neighbours who come dropping\ninto his cottage door, uninvited, but sure of a friendly welcome next\nSunday after mass, their errand being to find out if the rumour is\ntrue that \"the Goldfinch\" has invented a fresh _canzuna_?\n\nSuch is the peasant poet of to-day; such he was five hundred or a\nthousand years ago. He presents a not unlovely picture of a stage in\ncivilisation which is not ours. To-morrow it will not be his either;\nhe will learn to read and write; he will taste the fruit of the Tree\nof the Knowledge of Good and Evil as it grows in our great centres\nof intellectual activity; he will begin to \"look before and after.\"\nStill, he will do all this in his own way, not in our way, and so much\nof his childhood having clung to him in youth, it follows that his\nyouth will not wholly depart from him in manhood. Through all the\nwonderfully mixed vicissitudes of his country the Sicilian has\npreserved an unique continuity of spiritual life; Christianity\nitself brought him to the brink of no moral cataclysm like that which\nengulfed the Norseman when he forsook Odin and Thor for the White\nChrist. It may therefore be anticipated that the new epoch he is\nentering upon will modify, not change his character. That he has\nremained outside of it so long, is due rather to the conditions under\nwhich he has lived than to the man; for the Sicilian grasps new ideas\nwith an almost alarming rapidity when once he gets hold of them;\nof all quick Italians he is the quickest of apprehension. This very\nintelligence of his, called into action by the lawlessness of his\nrulers and by ages of political tyranny and social oppression, has\nenabled him to accomplish that systemization of crime which at one\ntime bred the Society of the Blessed Pauls, and now is manifested in\nthe Mafia. You cannot do any business harmless or harmful, you\ncannot buy or sell, beg or steal, without feeling the hand of an\nunacknowledged but ever present power which decides for you what you\nare to do, and levies a tax on whatever profit you may get out of\nthe transaction. If a costermonger sells a melon for less than the\nestablished price, his fellows consider that they are only executing\nthe laws of their real masters when they make him pay for his temerity\nwith his life. The wife of an English naval officer went with her maid\nto the market at Palermo, and asked the price of a fish which, it was\nstated, cost two francs. She passed on to another stall where a fish\nof the same sort was offered her for 1.50. She said she would buy it,\nand took out of her purse a note for five _lire_, which she gave the\nvendor to change. Meanwhile, unobserved, the first man had come up\nbehind them, and no sooner was the bargain concluded, than he whipped\na knife out of his pocket, and in a moment more would have plunged it\nin the second man's breast, had not the lady pushed back his arm,\nand cried by some sudden inspiration, \"Wait, he has not given me my\nchange!\" No imaginable words would have served their purpose so well;\nthe man dropped the knife, burst out laughing, and exclaimed: \"Che\ncoraggio!\" The brave Englishwoman nearly fainted when she returned\nhome. Her husband asked what was the matter, to which she answered: \"I\nhave saved a man's life, and I have no idea how I did it.\"\n\nSomething has been done to lessen the hereditary evil, but the cure\nhas yet to come. It behoves the Sicilians of a near future to stamp\nout this plague spot on the face of their beautiful island, and thus\nallow it to garner the full harvest of prosperity lying in its mineral\nwealth and in the incomparable fertility of its soil. That it is only\ntoo probable that the people will lose their lyre in proportion as\nthey learn their letters is a poor reason for us to bid them stand\nstill while the world moves on; human progress is rarely achieved\nwithout some sacrifices--the one sacrifice we may not make, whatever\nbe the apparent gain, is that of truth and the pursuit of it.\n\n    [Footnote 1: So Virgil:\n\n      \"Alba ligustra cadunt, vaccinia nigra leguntur.\"\n    ]\n\n\n\n\nGREEK SONGS OF CALABRIA.\n\n\nThat the connecting link between Calabria and Greece was at one time\ncompletely cut in two, is an assumption which is commonly made, but\nit is scarcely a proved fact. What happened to the Italian Greeks on\ntheir surrender to Rome? In a few instances they certainly disappeared\nwith extreme rapidity. Aristoxenus, the peripatetic musician, relates\nof the Poseidonians--\"whose fate it was, having been originally Greek,\nto be barbarised, becoming Tuscans or Romans,\" that they still met to\nkeep one annual festival, at which, after commemorating their ancient\ncustoms, they wept together over their lost nationality. This is\nthe pathetic record of men who could not hope. In a little while,\nPoseidonia was an obscure Roman town famous only for its beautiful\nroses. But the process of \"barbarisation\" was not everywhere so swift.\nAlong the coast-line from Rhegium to Tarentum, Magna Graecia, in the\nstrict use of the term, the people are known to have clung so long\nto their old language and their old conditions of life that it is at\nleast open to doubt if they were not clinging to them still when it\ncame to be again a habit with Greeks to seek an Italian home. In the\nninth and tenth centuries the tide of Byzantine supremacy swept into\nCalabria from Constantinople, only, however, to subside almost as\nsuddenly as it advanced. Once more history well-nigh loses sight of\nthe Greeks of Italy. Yet at a moment of critical importance to modern\nlearning their existence was honourably felt. Petrarch's friend and\nmaster, Barlaam, who carried the forgotten knowledge of Homer across\nthe Alps, was by birth a Calabrian. In Barlaam's day there were large\ncommunities of Greeks both in Calabria and in Terra d'Otranto. A\nsteady decrease from then till now has brought their numbers down to\nabout 22,800 souls in all. These few survivors speak a language which\nis substantially the same as modern Greek, with the exceptions that it\nis naturally affected by the surrounding Italic dialects and that it\ncontains hardly a Turkish or a Sclavonic word. Their precise origin is\nstill a subject of conjecture. Soon after Niebuhr had hailed them as\nMagna Graecians pure and simple, they were pronounced offhand to be\nquite recent immigrants; then the date of their arrival was assigned\nto the reign of the first or second Basil; and lastly there is a\ngrowing tendency to push it back still further and even to admit that\nsome strain of the blood of the original colonists may have entered\ninto the elements of their descent. On the whole, it seems easier to\nbelieve that though their idiom was divided from the Romaic, it yet\nunderwent much the same series of modifications, than to suppose them\nto have been in Greece when the language of that country was saturated\nwith Sclavonic phrases, which have only been partly weeded out within\nthe last thirty years.\n\nHenry Swinburne visited the Greek settlements in 1780 or thereabouts,\nbut like most of his contemporaries he mixes up the Greek with the\nAlbanians, of whom there are considerable colonies in Calabria, dating\nfrom the death of Skanderbeg. Even in this century a German savant\nwas assured at Naples that the so-called Greeks were one and all\nAlbanians. The confusion is not taken as a compliment. No one has\nstayed in the Hellenic kingdom without noticing the pride that goes\nalong with the name of Greek--a pride which it is excusable to smile\nat, but which yet has both its touching and its practical aspect, for\nit has remade a nation. The Greeks of Southern Italy have always had\ntheir share of a like feeling. \"We are not ashamed of our race,\nGreeks we are, and we glory in it,\" wrote De Ferraris, a Greek born\nat Galatone in 1444, and the words would be warmly endorsed by the\nenlightened citizens of Bova and Ammendolea, who quarrel as to which\nof the two places gave birth to Praxiteles. The letterless classes do\nnot understand the grounds of the Magna Graecian pretensions, but they\ntoo have a vague pleasure in calling themselves Greek and a vague idea\nof superiority over their \"Latin\" fellow-countrymen. \"Wake up,\" sings\nthe peasant of Martignano in Terra d'Otranto, \"wake up early to hear a\nGrecian lay, so that the Latins may not learn it.\"\n\n  Fsunna, fsunna, na cusi ena sonetto\n  Grico, na mi to matun i Latini.\n\nBova is the chief place in Calabria where Greek survives. The\ninhabitants call it \"Vua,\" or simply \"Hora.\" The word \"hora,\" _the\ncity_, is applied by the Greeks of Terra d'Otranto to that part of\ntheir hamlets which an Englishman would call \"the old village.\" It is\nnot generally known that \"city\" is used in an identical sense by old\ncountry-folks in the English Eastern counties. The Bovesi make a third\nof the whole Greek-speaking population of Calabria, and Bova has the\ndignity of being an episcopal seat, though its bishop has moved his\nresidence to the Marina, a sort of seaside suburb, five miles distant\nfrom the town. Thirty years ago the ecclesiastical authorities were\nalready agitating for the transfer, but the people opposed it till the\ncompletion of the railway to Reggio and the opening of a station at\nthe Marina di Bova settled the case against them. The cathedral, the\nfour or five lesser churches, the citadel, even the Ghetto, all tell\nof the unwritten age of Bova's prosperity. Old street-names perpetuate\nthe memory of the familiar spirits of the place; the Lamiae who lived\nin a particular quarter, the _Fullitto_ who frequented the lane under\nthe cathedral wall. Ignoring Praxiteles, the poorer Bovesi set faith\nin a tradition that their ancestors dwelt on the coast, and that it\nwas in consequence of Saracenic incursions that they abandoned their\nhomes and built a town on the crags of Aspromonte near the lofty\npastures to which herds of cattle (_bovi_) were driven in the summer.\nThe name of Bova would thus be accounted for, and its site bears out\nthe idea that it was chosen as a refuge. The little Greek city hangs\nin air. To more than one traveller toiling up to it by the old Reggio\nroute it has seemed suggestive of an optical delusion. There is\nrefreshment to be had on the way: a feast for the sight in pink and\nwhite flowers of gigantic oleanders; a feast for the taste in the\nsweet and perfumed fruit of the wild vine. Still it is disturbing\nto see your destination suspended above your head at a distance that\nseems to get longer instead of shorter. Some comfort may be got from\nhearing Greek spoken at Ammendolea, itself an eyrie, and again at\nCondufuri. A last, long, resolute effort brings you, in spite of your\nforebodings, to Bova, real as far as stones and fountains, men and\nwomen, and lightly-clothed children can make it; yet still half a\ndream, you think, when you sit on the terrace at sunset and look\nacross the blue Ionian to the outline, unbroken from base to crown, of\n\"Snowy AEtna, nurse of endless frost, the prop of heaven.\"\n\nThere is plenty of activity among the Greeks of Calabria Ultra. Many\nof them contrive to get a livelihood out of the chase; game of\nevery sort abounds, and wolves are not extinct. In the mountaineers'\ncottages, which shelter a remarkable range of animals, an infant wolf\nsometimes lies down with a tame sheep; whilst on the table hops a\ndomesticated eagle, taken when young from its nest in defiance of\nthe stones dropped upon the robber by the outraged parent-birds. The\npeasants till the soil, sow corn, plant vegetables, harvest the olives\nand grapes, gather the prickly pears, make cheese, tend cattle, and\nare wise in the care of hives. It is a kind of wisdom of which their\nrace has ever had the secret. The Greek Calabrians love bees as they\nwere loved by the idyllic poets. \"Ehi tin cardia to melissa\" (\"he has\nthe heart of a bee\"), is said of a kindly and helpful man. Sicilian\nHybla cannot have yielded more excellent honey than Bova and\nAmmendolea. It is sad to think of, but it is stated on good authority\nthat the people of those lofty cities quarrel over their honey as much\nas about Praxiteles. Somehow envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness\nfind a way into the best of real idylls. You may live at the top of\na mountain and cordially detest your neighbour. The folk of Condufuri\ngreet the folk of Bova as Vutani dogs, which is answered by the\nepithet of Spesi-spasu, all the more disagreeable because nobody knows\nwhat it means. In Terra d'Otranto the dwellers in the various Greek\nhamlets call each other thieves, asses, simpletons, and necromancers.\nThe Italian peasants are inclined to class Greeks and Albanians alike\nin the category of \"Turchi,\" and though the word Turk, as used by\nItalians, in some cases simply means foreign, it is a questionable\nterm to apply to individuals. The Greeks, with curious scorn, are\ncontent to fling back the charge of Latin blood.\n\nWhen the day's work is done, comes the frugal evening meal; a dish of\n_ricotta_, a glass of wine and snow. Wine is cheap in Calabria, where\nthe finest variety is of a white sweet kind called _Greco_; and the\nheights of Aspromonte provide a supply of frozen snow, which is a\nnecessary rather than a luxury in this climate. About the hour of\nAvemmaria the bagpipers approach. In the mountains the flocks\nfollow the wild notes of the \"Zampogna\" or \"Ceramedda,\" unerringly\ndistinguishing the music of their own shepherd. A visit from the\nZampognari to hill-town, or village sets all the world on the alert.\nThere is gossiping, and dancing, and the singing of songs, in which\nexpression takes the place of air. Two young men sing together,\nwithout accompaniment, or one sings alone, accompanied by bagpipe,\nviolin, and guitar. So the evening passes by, till the moon rises and\nturns the brief, early darkness into a more glorified day. The little\nhum of human sound dies in the silence of the hills; only perhaps a\nsingle clear, sweet voice prolongs the monotone of love.\n\nThe Italian complimentary alphabet is unknown to the Greek poets. The\nperson whom they address is not apostrophised as Beauty or Beloved,\nor star, or angel, or _Fior eterno_, or _Delicatella mia_. They do not\ncarry about ready for use a pocketful of poetic-sugared rose-leaves,\nnor have they the art of making each word serve as an act of homage or\na caress. It is true that \"caxedda,\" a word that occurs frequently in\ntheir songs, has been resolved by etymologists into \"pupil of my eye;\"\nbut for the people it means simply \"maiden.\" The Greek Calabrian gives\none the impression of rarely saying a thing because it is a pretty\nthing to say. If he treats a fanciful idea, he presents it, as it\nwere, in the rough. Take for instance the following:--\n\n  Oh! were I earth, and thou didst tread on me,\n    Or of thy shoe the sole, this too were sweet!\n  Or were I just the dress that covers thee,\n    So might I fall entangling round thy feet.\n  Were I the crock, and thou didst strike on me,\n    And we two stooped to catch the waters fleet;\n  Or were I just the dress that covers thee,\n    So without me thou couldst not cross the street.\n\nHere the fancy is the mere servant of the thought behind it. The lover\ndoes not figure himself as the fly on the cheek of his mistress, or\nthe flower on her breast. There is no intrinsic prettiness in the\ncommon earth or the common water-vessel, in the sole of a worn shoe,\nor in a workaday gown.\n\nIt cannot be pretended that the Greek is so advanced in untaught\nculture as some of his Italian brothers; in fact there are specimens\nof the _Sonetto Grico_ which are so bald and prosaic that the \"Latins\"\nmight not be at much pains to learn them even were they sung at\nnoonday. The Titianesque glow which illuminates the plain materials\nof Venetian song must not be looked for. What will be found\nin Graeco-Calabrian poesy is a strong appearance of sincerity,\nsupplemented at times by an almost startling revelation of tender and\nchivalrous feeling. To these Greek poets of Calabria love is another\nname for self-sacrifice. \"I marvel how so fair a face can have a heart\nso tyrannous, in that thou bearest thyself so haughtily towards me,\nwhile for thee I take no rest; and thou dost as thou wilt, because\nI love thee--if needs be that I should pour out my blood with all my\nheart for thee, I will do it.\" This is love which discerns in its own\ndepths the cause of its defeat. A reproach suggestive of Heine in\nits mocking bitterness changes in less than a moment to a cry of\ndespairing entreaty--\n\n  I know you love me not, say what you may,\n    I'll not believe, no, no, my faithless one;\n  With all the rest I see you laugh and play,\n    'Tis only I, I only whom you shun.\n  Ah, could I follow where you lead the way:\n    The obstinate thoughts upon your traces run\n    Make me a feint of love, though you have none,\n  For I must think upon you night and day.\n\nThe scene is easily pictured: the bravery of words at meeting, all the\njust displeasure of many a day bursting forth; then the cessation of\nanger in the beloved presence and the final unconditional surrender. A\nlighter mood succeeds, but love's royal clemency is still the text:\n\n  Say, little girl, what have I done to thee,\n    What have I done to thee that thou art dumb?\n  Oft wouldst thou seek me once, such friends were we,\n    But now thou goest away whene'er I come.\n  If thou hast missed in aught, why quick, confess it,\n    For thee this heart will all, yes all, forgive;\n  If miss be mine, contrive that I should guess it;\n    And soon the thing shall finish, as I live!\n\nThe dutiful lover rings all the changes on humble remonstrance:\n\n  I go where I may see thee all alone,\n    So I may kneel before thee on the ground,\n  And ask of thee how is it that unknown\n    Unto thy heart is every prick and wound?\n  Canst thou not see that e'en my breath is flown,\n    Thinking of thee while still the days go round?\n  If thou wouldst not that I should quickly die,\n  Love only me and bid the rest good-bye.\n\nHe might as well speak to the winds or to the stones, and he admits\nas much. \"Whensoever I pass I sing to make thee glad; if I do not come\nfor a few hours I send thee a greeting with my eyes. But thou dost act\nthe deaf and likewise the dumb: pity thou hast none for my tears.\"\nIf he fails to fulfil his prophecy of dying outright, at any rate he\nfalls into the old age of youth, which arrives as soon as the bank of\nhope breaks:\n\n  Come night, come day, one only thought have I,\n    Which graven on my heart must ever stay;\n  Grey grows my hair and dismal age draws nigh,\n    Wilt thou not cease the tyrant's part to play?\n  Thou seem'st a very Turk for cruelty,\n    Of Barbary a very Turk I say;\n  I know not why thy love thou dost deny,\n    Or why with hate my love thou dost repay.\n\nThis may be compared with a song taken down from the mouth of a\npeasant near Reggio, an amusing illustration of the kind of thing in\nfavour with Calabrian herdsmen:--\n\n  Angelical thou art and not terrene,\n    Who dost kings' wives excel in loveliness!\n  Thou art a pearl, or Grecian Helen, I ween,\n    For whom Troy town was brought to sore distress;\n  Thine are the locks which graced the Magdalene,\n    Lucrece of Rome did scarce thy worth possess:\n  If thou art pitiless to me, oh, my Queen,\n    No Christian thou, a Turk, and nothing less!\n\nA glance at the daughter of Greek Calabria will throw some light on\nthe plaints of her devoted suitors. The name she bears = _Dihatera_,\nbrings directly to mind the Sanskrit _Duhita_; and the vocation of the\nGraeco-Calabrian girl is often as purely pastoral as that of the Aryan\nmilkmaid who stood sponsor for so large a part of maidenhood in\nAsia and in Europe. She is sent out into the hills to keep sheep; a\ncircumstance not ignored by the shepherd lad who sits in the shade and\ntrills on his treble reed. Ewe's milk is as much esteemed as in the\ndays of Theocritus; it forms the staple of the inevitable _ricotta_.\nIn the house the Greek damsel never has her hands idle. She knows how\nto make the mysterious cakes and comfits, for which the stranger is\nbound to have as large an appetite in Calabria as in the isles of\nGreece. A light heart lightens her work, whatever it be. \"You sit on\nthe doorstep and laugh as you wind the reels, then you go to the\nloom, _e ecinda magna travudia travudia_\" (\"and sing those beautiful\nsongs\"). So says the ill-starred poet, who discovers to his cost that\nit is just this inexhaustible merriment that lends a sharp edge to\nmaiden cruelty. \"I have loved you since you were a little thing, never\ncan you leave my heart; you bound me with a light chain; my mind\nand your mind were one. Now,\"--such is the melancholy outcome of it\nall--\"now you are a perfect little fox to me, while you will join in\nany frolic with the others.\" The fair tyrant develops an originality\nof thought which surprises her best friends: \"Ever since you were\nbeloved, you have always an idea and an opinion!\" It is beyond human\npower to account for her caprices: \"You are like a fay in the rainbow,\nshowing not one colour, but a thousand.\" When trouble comes to her as\nit comes to all--when she has a slight experience of the pain she\nis so ready to inflict--she does not meekly bow her head and suffer.\n\"Manamu,\" cries a girl who seems to have been neglected for some one\nof higher stature. \"Mother mine, I have got a little letter, and all\nsorts of despair. _She_ is tall, and _I_ am little, and I have not the\npower to tear her in pieces!\"--as she has probably torn the sheet of\npaper which brought the unwelcome intelligence. She goes on to say\nthat she will put up a vow in a chapel, so as to be enabled to do\nsome personal, but not clearly explained damage to the cause of her\nmisfortunes. There is nothing new under the sun; the word \"anathema\"\noriginally meant a votive offering: one of those execratory tablets,\ndeposited in the sacred places, by means of which the ancient Greeks\ncommitted their enemies to the wrath of the Infernal Goddesses. Mr\nNewton has shown that it was the gentler sex which availed itself, by\nfar the most earnestly, of the privilege. Most likely our Lady of Hate\nin Brittany would have the same tale to tell. Impotence seeks strange\nways to compass its revenge.\n\nIn some extremities the lover has recourse, not indeed to anathemas,\nbut to irony. \"I am not a reed,\" he protests, \"that where you bend me\nI should go; nor am I a leaf, that you should move me with a breath.\"\nThen, after observing that poison has been poured on his fevered\nvitals, he exclaims, \"Give your love to others, and just see if they\nwill love you as I do!\" One poet has arrived at the conclusion that\nall the women of a particular street in Bova are hopelessly false:\n\"Did you ever see a shepherd wolf, or a fox minding chickens, or a pig\nplanting lettuces, or an ox, as sacristan, snuffing out tapers with\nhis horns? As soon will you find a woman of Cuveddi who keeps her\nfaith.\" Another begins his song with sympathy, but ends by uttering a\nsomewhat severe warning:\n\n  Alas, alas! my heart it bleeds to see\n    How now thou goest along disconsolate;\n  And in thy sorrow I no help can be--\n    My own poor heart is in a piteous state.\n  Come with sweet words--ah! come and doctor me,\n    And lift from off my heart this dolorous weight.\n  If thou come not, then none can pardon thee:\n    Go not to Rome for shrift; it is too late.\n\nThe Calabrian Greek has more than his share of the pangs of unrequited\nlove; that it is so he assures us with an iteration that must prove\nconvincing. Still, some balm is left in Gilead. Even at Bova there\nare maidens who do not think it essential to their dignity to act the\n_role_ of Eunica. The poorest herdsman, the humblest shepherd, has a\nchance of getting listened to; a poor, bare chance perhaps, but one\nwhich unlocks the door to as much of happiness as there is in the\nworld. At least the accepted lover in the mountains of Calabria would\nbe unwilling to admit that there exists a greater felicity than his.\nIf he goes without shoes, still \"love is enough:\"\n\n  Little I murmur against my load of woe--\n    Our love will never fail, nor yet decline;\n  For to behold thy form contents me so,\n    To see thee laugh with those red lips of thine.\n  Dost thou say not a word when past I go?\n    This of thy love for me is most sure sign;\n  Our love will no decline or failing know\n    Till in the sky the sun shall cease to shine.\n\nKarro, the day-labourer (to whom we will give the credit of inventing\nthis song), would not, if he could, put one jot of his burden on\nFilomena of the Red Lips. Provided she laughs, he is sufficiently\nblest. It so happens that Filomena is his master's granddaughter;\nhence, alas! the need of silence as the sign of love. The wealthy old\npeasant has sworn that the child of his dead son shall never wed a\npenniless lad, who might have starved last winter if he had not given\nhim work to do, out of sheer charity. Karro comes to a desperate\nresolution: he will go down to Reggio and make his fortune. When he\nthinks it over, he feels quite confident of success: other folks have\nbrought back lots of money to Bova out of the great world, and why\nshould not he? In the early morning he calls Filomena to bid her a\ncheerful farewell:\n\n  Come hither! run! thy friend must go away;\n    Come with a kiss--the time is flying fast.\n  Sure am I thou thy word wilt not betray,\n    And for remembrance' sake my heart thou hast.\n  Weep not because I leave thee for a day--\n    Nay, do not weep, for it will soon be past;\n  And, I advise thee, heed not if they say,\n    \"Journeys like this long years are wont to last.\"\n\nDown at Reggio, Karro makes much poetry, and, were it not for his\ndefective education, one might think that he had been studying Byron:\n\n  If I am forced far from thine eyes to go,\n    Doubt not, ah! never doubt my constancy;\n  The very truth I tell, if thou wouldst know--\n    Distance makes stronger my fidelity.\n  On my sure faith how shouldst thou not rely?\n    How think through distance I can faithless grow?\n  Remember how I loved thee, and reply\n    If distance love like mine can overthrow.\n\nThe fact is that he has not found fortune-making quite so quick a\nbusiness as he had hoped. To the sun he says, when it rises, \"O Sun!\nthou that travellest from east to west, if thou shouldst see her whom\nI love, greet her from me, and see if she shall laugh. If she asks how\nI fare, tell her that many are my ills; if she asks not this of thee,\nnever can I be consoled.\" One day, in the market place, he meets a\nfriend of his, Toto Sgro, who has come from Bova with wine to sell.\nHere is an opportunity of safely sending a _sonetto_ to the red-lipped\nFilomena. The public letter-writer is resorted to. This functionary\ngets out the stock of deep pink paper which is kept expressly in the\nintention of enamoured clients, and says gravely \"Proceed.\" \"An imme\nlarga an' du lucchiu tu dicussu,\" begins Karro. \"Pray use a tongue\nknown to Christians,\" interposes the scribe. Toto Sgro, who is\npresent, remarks in Greek that such insolence should be punished; but\nKarro counsels peace, and racks his brains for a poem in the Calabrese\ndialect. Most of the men of Bova can poetize in two languages. The\npoem, which is produced after a moderate amount of labour, turns\nchiefly on the idle talk of mischief-makers, who are sure to insinuate\nthat the absent are in the wrong. \"The tongue of people is evil\nspeaking; it murmurs more than the water of the stream; it babbles\nmore than the water of the sea. But what ill can folks say of us if we\nlove each other? I love thee eternally. Love me, Filomena, and think\nnothing about it.\"\n\n  Amame, Filomena, e nu' pensare!\n\nTowards spring-time, Karro goes to Scilla to help in the sword-fish\ntaking; it is a bad year, and the venture does not succeed. He nearly\nloses courage--fate seems so thoroughly against him. Just then he\nhears a piece of news: at the _osteria_ there is an _Inglese_ who has\nset his mind on the possession of a live wolf cub. \"Mad, quite mad,\nlike all _Inglesi_,\" is the comment of the inhabitants of Scilla.\n\"Who ever heard of taking a live wolf?\" Karro, as a mountaineer, sees\nmatters in a different light. Forthwith he has an interview with the\nEnglishman; then he vanishes from the scene for two months. \"Poveru\ngiuvinetto,\" says the host at the inn, \"he has been caught by an\nold wolf instead of catching a young one!\" At the end of the time,\nhowever, Karro limps up to the door with an injured leg, and hardly\na rag left to cover him; but carrying on his back a sack holding two\nwolf cubs, unhurt and tame as kittens. The gratified _Inglese_ gives a\nbountiful reward; he is not the first of his race who has acted as the\n_deus ex machina_ of a love-play on an Italian stage. Nothing remains\nto be done but for Karro to hasten back to Bova. Yet a kind of\nuneasiness mixes with his joy. What has Filomena been doing and\nthinking all this while! He holds his heart in suspense at the sight\nof her beauty:\n\n  In all the world fair women met my gaze,\n    But none I saw who could with thee compare;\n  I saw the dames whom most the Rhegians praise,\n    And by the thought of thee they seemed not fair.\n    When thou art dressed to take the morning air\n  The sun stands still in wonder and amaze;\n  If thou shouldst scorn thy love of other days,\n    I go a wanderer, I know not where.\n\nThe story ends well. Filomena proves as faithful as she is fair;\nKarro's leg is quickly cured, and the old man gives his consent to the\nmarriage--nay more, feeble as he is now, he is glad to hand over the\nwhole management of the farm to his son-in-law. Thus the young couple\nstart in life with the three inestimable blessings which a Greek poet\nreckons as representing the sum total of human prosperity: a full\ngranary, a dairy-house to make cheese in, and a fine pig.\n\nIn collections of Tuscan and Sicilian songs it is common to find a\ngoodly number placed under the heading \"Delle loro bellezze.\" The\nGreek songs of Calabria that exactly answer to this description\nare few. A new Zeuxis might successfully paint an unseen Tuscan or\nSicilian girl--local Anacreons by the score would give him the needful\ndetails: the colour of the hair and eyes, the height, complexion,\nbreadth of shoulders, smallness of waist; nor would they forget to\nmention the nobility of pose and carriage, _il leggiadro portamento\naltero_, which is the crowning gift of women south of the Alps. It can\nbe recognized at once that the poets of Sicily and Tuscany have not\nmerely a vague admiration for beauty in general; they have an innate\nartistic perception of what goes to constitute the particular form\nof beauty before their eyes. Poorer in words and ideas, the Greek\nCalabrian hardly knows what to say of his beloved, except that she is\n_dulce ridentem_, \"sweetly-laughing,\" and that she has small red lips,\nbetween which he is sure that she must carry honey--\n\n  To meli ferri s' ettunda hilucia ...\n\nHe seems scarcely to notice whether she is fair or dark. Fortunately\nit is not impossible to fill in the blank spaces in the picture. The\nold Greek stamp has left a deep impression at home and abroad. Where\nthere were Greeks there are still men and women whose features are\ncut, not moulded, and who have a peculiar symmetry of form, which is\nnot less characteristic though it has been less discussed. A friend\nof mine, who accompanied the Expedition of the Thousand, was struck\nby the conformity of the standard of proportion to be observed in the\nwomen of certain country districts in Sicily with the rule followed in\nGreek sculpture; it is a pity that the subject is not taken in hand\nby some one who has more time to give to it than a volunteer on the\nmarch. I have said \"men _or_ women,\" for it is a strange fact that the\nheritage of Greek beauty seems to fall to only one sex at a time. At\nAthens and in Cyprus young men may be seen who would have done credit\nto the gymnasia, but never a handsome girl; whilst at Arles, in\nSicily, and in Greek Calabria the women are easily first in the race.\nThe typical Graeco-Calabrian maiden has soft light hair, a fairness of\nskin which no summer heats can stain, and the straight outline of a\nstatue. There is another pattern of beauty in Calabria: low forehead,\nstraight, strongly-marked eyebrows, dark, blue, serious eyes, lithe\nfigure, elastic step. Place beside the women of the last type a man\ndyed copper-colour, with black, lank locks, and the startled look of\na wild animal. The Greeks have many dark faces, and many ugly faces,\ntoo; for that matter, uncompromising plainness was always amongst the\npossibilities of an Hellenic physiognomy. But the beautiful dark girl\nand her lank-locked companion do not belong to them. Whom they do\nbelong to is an open question; perhaps to those early Brettians who\ndwelt in the forest of the Syla, despised by the Greeks as savages,\nand docketed by the Romans, without rhyme or reason, as the\ndescendants of escaped criminals. Calabria offers an inviting field\nto the ethnologist. It is probable that the juxtaposition of various\nraces has not led in any commensurate degree to a mixture of\nblood. Each commune is a unit perpetually reformed out of the same\nconstituents. Till lately intermarriage was carried to such a pitch\nthat it was rare to meet with a man in a village who was not closely\nrelated to every other inhabitant of it.\n\nThe Greeks of Terra d'Otranto bear a strong physical resemblance to\nthe Greeks of Calabria Ultra. It is fifty or sixty years since the\nHon. R. Keppel Craven remarked a \"striking regularity of feature and\nbeauty of complexion\" in the women of Martano and Calimera. At Martano\nthey have a pretty song in praise of some incomparable maid:\n\n  My Sun, where art thou going? Stay to see\n  How passing beautiful is she I love.\n  My Sun, that round and round the world dost move,\n  Hast thou seen any beautiful as she?\n  My Sun, that hast the whole world travelled round,\n  One beautiful as she thou hast not found!\n\nNext to his lady's laughter, the South Italian Greek worships the sun.\nIt is the only feature in nature to which he pays much heed. In common\nwith other forms of modern Greek the Calabrian possesses the beautiful\nperiphrase for sunset, _o iglio vasileggui_ ([Greek: ho helios\nbasileuei]). Language, which is altogether a kind of poetry, has not\nanything more profoundly poetic. There is a brisk, lively ring in the\n\"Sun up!\" of the American Far West; but an intellectual Atlantic flows\nbetween it and the Greek ascription of kingship, of heroship, to the\nDay-giver at the end of his course--\n\n  Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht,\n  So stirbt ein Held! Anbetungswuerdig!\n\nWhen we were young, were not our hearts stirred to their inmost depths\nby this?\n\nThe love-songs of Bova include one composed by a young man who had the\nill-luck to get into prison. \"Remember,\" he says, \"the words I spoke\nto thee when we were seated on the grass; for the love of Christ,\nremember them, so as not to make my life a torment. Think not that I\nshall stay in here for ever; already I have completed one day. But if\nit should happen that thou art forgetful of my words, beyond a doubt\nthis prison awaits me!\" The singer seems to wish it to be inferred\nthat his line of conduct in the given case will be such as to entitle\nhim to board and lodging at the expense of the state for the rest of\nhis days. In times still recent, prisoners at Bova could see and be\nseen, and hear and be heard, through the bars. Thus the incarcerated\nlover had not to wait long for an answer, which must have greatly\nrelieved his mind: \"The words that thou didst say to me on the tender\ngrass, I remember them--I forget them not. I would not have thee\nsay them over again; but be sure I love thee. Night and day I go to\nchurch, and of Christ I ask this grace: 'My Christ, make short the\nhours--bring to me him whom I love!'\"\n\nThe Greeks have a crafty proverb, \"If they see me I laugh; but if not,\nI rob and run.\" A Graeco-Italic word[1], _maheri_, or \"poignard,\" has\nbeen suggested as the origin of _Mafia_, the name of one of the two\ngreat organisations for crime which poison the social atmosphere of\nsouthern Italy. The way of looking upon an experience of the penalties\nof the law, not as a retribution or a disgrace, but as a simple\nmischance, still prevails in the provinces of the ex-kingdom of\nNaples. \"The prisons,\" says a Calabrian poet, \"are made for honest\nmen.\" Yet the people of Calabria are rather to be charged with a\nconfusion of moral sense than with a completely debased morality. What\nhas been said of the modern Greek could with equal truth be said of\nthem, whether Greeks or otherwise: put them upon their point of honour\nand they may be highly trusted. At a date when, in Sicily, no one\nwent unarmed, it was the habit in Calabria to leave doors and windows\nunfastened during an absence of weeks or months; and it is still\nremembered how, after the great earthquake of 1783, five Calabrians\nwho happened to be at Naples brought back to the treasury 200 ducats\n(received by them out of the royal bounty) on learning, through\nprivate sources, that their homesteads were safe. The sort of honesty\nhere involved is not so common as it might be, even under the best of\nsocial conditions.\n\nIn that year of catastrophe--1783--it is more than possible that some\nof the Greek-speaking communities were swallowed up, leaving no trace\nbehind. Calabria was the theatre of a series of awful transformation\nscenes; heroism and depravity took strange forms, and men intent on\npillage were as ready to rush into the tottering buildings as men\nintent on rescue. A horrid rejoicing kept pace with terror and\ndespair. In contrast to all this was the surprising calmness\nwith which in some cases the ordeal was faced. At Oppido, a place\noriginally Greek, a pretty young woman, aged nineteen years, was\nimmured for thirty hours, and shortly after her husband had extricated\nher she became a mother. Dolomieu asked what had been her thoughts in\nher living tomb; to which she simply answered, \"I waited.\" The Prince\nof Scilla and four thousand people were swept into the sea by a single\nvolcanic wave. Only the mountains stood firm. Bova, piled against the\nrock like a child's card-city, suffered no harm, whilst the most solid\nstructures on the shore and in the plain were pitched about as ships\nin a storm. Still, in the popular belief the whole mischief was brewed\ndeep down in the innermost heart of Aspromonte. It may be that\nthe theory grew out of the immemorial dread inspired by the Bitter\nMount--a dread which seems in a way prophetic of the dark shadow it\nwas fated to cast across the fair page of Italian redemption.\n\nA thousand years ago every nook and cranny in the Calabrian mountains\nhad its Greek hermit. Now and then one of these anchorites descended\nto the towns, and preached to flocks of penitents in the Greek idiom,\nwhich was understood by all. Under Byzantine rule the people generally\nadhered to the Greek rite; nor was it without the imposition of the\nheavy hand of Rome that they were finally brought to renounce it. As\nlate as the sixteenth century the liturgies were performed in Greek\nat Rossano, and perhaps much later in the hill-towns, where there\nare women who still treasure up scraps of Greek prayers. Greek, in an\nolder sense than any attached to the ritual of the Eastern Church, is\nthe train of thought marked out in this line from a folk-song of Bova:\n\"O Juro pu en chi jerusia\" (\"The Lord who hath not age\"). The Italian\nimagines the Creator as an old man; witness, to take only one example,\nthe frescoes on the walls of the Pisan Campo Santo. A Tuscan\nproverb, which means no evil, though it would not very well bear\ntranslating--\"Lascia fare a Dio che e Santo Vecchio\"--shows how\nin this, as in other respects, Italian art is but the concrete\npresentation of Italian popular sentiment. The grander idea of \"a\nDivine power which grows not old\" seems very like an exotic in Italy.\nWithout yielding too much to the weakness of seeking analogies,\none other coincidence may be mentioned in passing. The Greek mother\nsoothes her crying child by telling him that \"the wild doves drink at\nthe _holy sea_.\" This \"ago Thalassia\" recalls the [Greek: hals dia] of\nthe greatest folk-poet who ever lived. _Thalassia_ is now replaced\nin ordinary conversation by the Italian _mare_; indeed, in Terra\nd'Otranto it is currently supposed to be the proper name of a saint.\nThe next step would naturally lead to the establishment of a cult of\nSt Thalassia; and this may have been the kind of way in which were\nestablished a good many of those cults that pass for evidences of\nnature-worship.\n\nThe language of the Graeco-Calabrian songs, mixed though it is with\nnumberless Calabrese corruptions, is still far more Greek than the\nactual spoken tongue. So it always happens; poetry, whether the\nhighest or the lowest, is the shrine in which the purer forms\nof speech are preserved. The Greeks of Calabria are at present\nbi-lingual, reminding one of Horace's \"Canusini more bilinguis.\" It\nis a comparatively new state of things. Henry Swinburne says that the\nwomen he saw knew only Greek or \"Albanese,\" as he calls it, which, he\nadds, \"they pronounce with great sweetness of accent.\" The advance\nof Calabrese is attended by the decline of Greek, and a systematic\nexamination of the latter has not been undertaken a moment too soon.\nThe good work, begun by Domenico Comparetti and Giuseppe Morosi, is\nbeing completed by professor Astorre Pellegrini, who has published one\nvolume of _Studi sui dialetti Greco-Calabro di Bova_, which will be\nfollowed in due course by a second instalment. I am glad to be able\nto record my own debt to this excellent and most courteous scholar.\nHe informs me that he hopes to finish his researches by a thorough\ninspection of the stones and mural tablets in Calabrian graveyards.\nThe dead have elsewhere told so much about the living that the best\nresults are to be anticipated.\n\nIt need scarcely be said that the leavings of the past in the southern\nextremity of Italy are not confined to the narrow space where a Greek\nidiom is spoken. There is not even warrant for supposing them to lie\nchiefly within that area. The talisman which the hunter or brigand\nwears next to his heart, believing that it renders him invulnerable;\nthe bagpipe which calls the sheep in the hills, and which the wild\nherds of swine follow docilely over the marshes; the faggot which the\nyouth throws upon his mother's threshold before he crosses it\nafter the day's toil; the kick, aimed against the house door, which\nsignifies the last summons of the debtor; the shout of \"Barca!\" raised\nby boys who lie in wait to get the first glimpse of the returning\nfishing fleet, expecting largess for the publication of the good\nnews; the chaff showered down by vine-dressers upon bashful maids\nand country lads going home from market; the abuse of strangers who\nventure into the vineyards at the vintage season--these are among the\nthings of the young world that may be sought in Calabria.\n\nOther things there are to take the mind back to the time when the\ncoins the peasant turns up with his hoe were fresh from the mint at\nLocri, and when the mildest of philosophies was first--\n\n                 ... dimly taught\n  In old Crotona;\n\nwild flowers as sweet as those that made Persephone forsake the plain\nof Enna; maidens as fair as the five beautiful virgins after whom\nZeuxis painted his _Helen_; grasshoppers as loudly chirping as\nthe \"cricket\" that saved the prize to Eunomus; and, high in the\ntransparent air, the stars at which Pythagoras gazed straining his\nears to catch their eternal harmonies.\n\n    [Footnote 1: In classical Greek, [Greek: machaira].]\n\n\n\n\nFOLK SONGS OF PROVENCE.\n\n\nOn a day in the late autumn it happened to me to be standing at a\nwindow looking down into an untidy back street at Avignon. It was a\nway of getting through the hours between a busy morning and a busy\nevening--hours which did not seem inclined to go. If ever man be\ntempted to upbraid the slowness of the flight of time, it is surely\nin the vacant intervals of travel. The prospect at the window could\nhardly be called enlivening; by-and-by, however, the dulness of\nthe outlook was lessened a little. The sounds of a powerful and not\nunmusical voice came along the street; people hastened to their doors,\nand in a minute or so a young lame man made his appearance. He was\nsinging Provencal songs. Here was the last of the troubadours!\n\nIf it needed some imagination to see in this humble minstrel the\nrepresentative of the courtly adepts in the gay science, still his\nrelationship to them was not purely fanciful. The itinerant singer\nused to be the troubadour of the poor. No doubt his more illustrious\nbrother grudged him the name. \"I am astonished,\" said Giraud Riquier\nto Alfonso of Aragon, \"that folks confound the troubadours with\nthose ignorant and uncouth persons who, as soon as they can play some\nscreeching instrument, go through the streets asking alms and singing\nbefore a vile rabble;\" and Alfonso answered that in future the noble\nappellation of \"joglaria\" should be granted no longer to mountebanks\nwho went about with dancing dogs, goats, monkeys, or puppets,\nimitating the song of birds, or for a meagre pittance singing before\npeople of base extraction, but that they should be called \"bufos,\"\nas in Lombardy. Giraud Riquier was not benevolently inclined when he\nembodied in verse his protest and the King's endorsement of it; yet\nhis words now lend an ancient dignity to the class they were meant\nto bring into contempt. The lame young man at Avignon had no dancing\ndogs, nor did he mimic the song of birds--an art still practised\nwith wonderful skill in Italy.[1] He helped out his entertainment by\nanother device, one suitable to an age which reads; he sold printed\nsongs, and he presented \"letters.\" If you bought two sous' worth of\nsongs you were entitled to a \"letter.\" It has to be explained that\n\"letters\" form a kind of fortune-telling, very popular in Provence. A\nnumber of small scraps of paper are attached to a ring; you pull off\none at hazard, and on it you find a full account of the fate reserved\nto you. Nothing more simple. As to the songs, loose sheets containing\nfour or five of them are to be had for fifteen centimes. I have seen\non the quay at Marseilles an open bookstall, where four thousand of\nthese songs are advertised for sale. Some are in Provencal, some in\nFrench; many are interlarded with prose sentences, in which case\nthey are called \"cansounetto eme parla.\" Formerly the same style of\ncomposition bore the name of _cantefable_. The subjects chosen are\ncomic, or sentimental, or patriotic, or, again, simply local. There\nis, for example, a dialogue between a proprietor and a lodger.\n\"Workman, why are you always grumbling?\" asks the \"moussu,\" who speaks\nFrench, as do angels and upper-class people generally in Provencal\nsongs. \"If your old quarters are to be pulled down, a fine new one\nwill be built instead. Ere long the town of Marseilles will become a\nparadise, and the universe will exclaim, 'What a marvel! Fine palaces\nreplace miserable hovels!'\" For all that, replies the workman in\nProvencal patois, the abandonment of his old quarter costs a pang to\na child _deis Carmes_ (an old part of Marseilles, standing where the\nGreek town stood). It was full of attraction to him. There his father\nlived before him; there his friends had grown with him to manhood;\nthere he had brought up his children, and lived content. The\nproprietor argues that it was far less clean than could be\nwished--there was too much insectivorous activity in it. He tells the\nworkman that he can find a lodging, after all not very expensive, in\nsome brand-new building outside the town; the railway will bring\nhim to his work. Unconvinced, the workman returns to his refrain,\n\"Regreterai toujour moun vieil Marsio.\" If the rhymes are bad, if the\nsubject is prosaic, we have here at least the force of a fact\npregnant with social danger. Is it only at Marseilles that the grand\nimprovements of modern days mean, for the man who lives by his labour,\nthe break-up of his home, the destruction of his household gods, the\ndispersion of all that sweetened and hallowed his poverty? The songs\nusually bear an author's name; but the authors of the original pieces,\nthough they may enjoy a solid popularity in Provence, are rarely known\nto a wider fame. One of them, M. Marius Feraud, whose address I hold\nin my hands, will be happy to compose songs or romances for marriages,\nbaptisms, and other such events, either in Provencal or in French,\nintroducing any surname and Christian name indicated, and arranging\nthe metre so as to suit the favourite tune of the person who orders\nthe poem.\n\nStreet ditties occupy an intermediate place between literate and\nilliterate poesy. Once the repertory of the itinerant _bufo_ was drawn\nfrom a source which might be called popular without qualifying the\nterm. With the pilgrim and the roving apprentice he was a chief agent\nin the diffusion of ballads. Even now he has a right to be remembered\nin any account of the songs of Provence; but, having given him\nmention, we must leave the streets to go to the well-heads of popular\ninspiration--the straggling village, the isolated farm, the cottage\nalone on the byeway.\n\nWhen in the present century there was a revival of Provencal\nliterature, after a suspension of some five hundred years, the poets\nwho devoted their not mean gifts to this labour of love discerned,\nwith true insight, that the only Provencal who was still thoroughly\nalive was the peasant. Through the long lapse of time in the progress\nof which Provence had lost its very name--becoming a thing of French\ndepartments--the peasant, it was discovered, had not changed much;\nacting on which discovery, the new Provencal school produced two works\nof a value that could not have been reached had it been attempted\neither to give an archaic dress to the ideas and interests of the\nmodern world, or to galvanise the dry bones of mediaeval romance into a\ndubious animation. These works are _Mireio_ and _Margarido_. Mistral,\nwith the idealising touch of the imaginative artist, paints the\nProvence of the valley of the Rhone, whilst Marius Trussy photographs\nthe ruder and wilder Provence of mountain and torrent. Taken together,\nthe two poems perfectly illustrate the _Wahrheit und Dichtung_ of the\nlife of the people whose songs we have to study.\n\nSince there is record of them the Provencals have danced and sung.\nThey may be said to have furnished songs and dances to all France, and\neven to lands far beyond the border of France. A French critic relates\nhow, when he was young, he went night after night to a certain\ntheatre in Paris to see a dance performed by a company of English\npantomimists. The dancers gradually stripped a staff, or may-pole,\nof its many-coloured ribbons, which became in their hands a sort\nof moving kaleidoscope. This, that he thought at the time to be an\nexclusively English invention, was the old Provencal dance of the\n_olivette_. In the Carnival season dances of an analogous kind are\nstill performed, here and there; by bands of young men, who march in\nappropriate costume from place to place, led by their harlequin and by\na player on the _galooube_, the little pipe which should be considered\nthe national instrument of Provence. Harlequin improvises couplets\nin a sarcastic vein, and the crowd of spectators is not slow to\napply each sally to some well-known person; whence it comes that Ash\nWednesday carries a sense of relief to many worthy individuals. May\nbrings with it more dances and milder songs. Young men plant a tree,\nwith a nosegay atop, before their sweethearts' doors, and then go\nsinging--\n\n  Lou premier jour de mai,\n            O Diou d'eime!\n  Quand tout se renouvelo\n            Rossignolet!\n  Quand tout se renouvelo.\n\nThe great business of the month is sheep-shearing, a labour celebrated\nin a special song. \"When the month of May comes, the shearers come:\nthey shear by night, they shear by day; for a month, and a fortnight,\nand three weeks they shear the wool of these white sheep.\" When the\nshearers go, the washers come; when the washers go, the carders come;\nthen come the spinners, the weavers, the buyers, and the ragmen who\ngather up the bits. Across the nonsense of which it is composed the\nditty reflects the old excitement caused in the lonely homesteads by\nthe annual visit of the plyers of these several trades, who turned\neverything upside down and brought strange news of the world. At\nharvest there was, and there is yet, a great gathering at the larger\nfarms. Troops of labourers assemble to do the needful work. Sometimes,\nafter the evening meal, a curious song called the \"Reapers' Grace\"\nis sung before the men go to rest. It has two parts: the first is a\nvariation on the first chapter of Genesis. Adam and _nouestro maire\nEvo_ are put into the Garden of Eden. Adam is forbidden to eat of the\nfruit of life; he eats thereof, and the day of his death is foretold\nhim. He will be buried under a palm, a cypress, and an olive, and out\nof the wood of the olive the Cross will be made. The second part, sung\nto a quick, lively air, is an expression of goodwill to the master and\nthe mistress of the farm, every verse ending, \"Adorem devotoment\nJesu eme Mario.\" A few years ago the harvest led on naturally to\nthe vintage. It is not so now. The vines of Provence, excellent\nin themselves, though never turned to the same account as those\nof Burgundy or Bordeaux, have been almost completely ruined by the\nphylloxera. The Provencal was satisfied if his wine was good enough to\nsuit his own taste and that of his neighbours; thus he had not laid\nby wealth to support him in the evil day that has come. \"Is there no\nhelp?\" I asked of a man of the poorer class. \"Only rain, much rain,\ncan do good,\" he answered, \"and,\" he added, \"we have not had a drop\nfor four months.\" The national disaster has been borne with the finest\nfortitude, but in Provence at least there seems to be small faith in\nany method of grappling with it. The vines, they say, are spoilt by\nthe attempt to submit them to an artificial deluge; so one after the\nother, the peasant roots them up, and tries to plant cabbages or what\nnot. Three hundred years back the Provencals would have known what\nmeasures to take: the offending insect would have been prosecuted.\nBetween 1545 and 1596 there was a run of these remarkable trials\nat Arles. In 1565 the Arlesiens asked for the expulsion of the\ngrasshoppers. The case came before the Tribunal de l'Officialite, and\nMaitre Marin was assigned to the insects as counsel. He defended his\nclients with much zeal. Since the accused had been created, he argued\nthat they were justified in eating what was necessary to them. The\nopposite counsel cited the serpent in the Garden of Eden, and sundry\nother animals mentioned in Scripture, as having incurred severe\npenalties. The grasshoppers got the worst of it, and were ordered to\nquit the territory, with a threat of anathematizatiom from the altar,\nto be repeated till the last of them had obeyed the sentence of the\nhonourable court.\n\nOne night in the winter of 1819 there was a frost which, had it been a\nfew times repeated, would have done as final mischief to the olives\nas the phylloxera has done to the vines. The terror of that night is\nremembered still. Corn, vine, and olive--these were the gifts of the\nGreek to Provence, and the third is the most precious of all. The\nolive has here an Eastern importance; the Provencals would see a\nliving truth in the story of how the trees said unto it, \"Reign thou\nover us.\" In the flowering season the slightest sharpness in the air\nsends half the rural population bare-foot upon a pilgrimage to the\nnearest St Briggitte or St Rossoline. The olive harvest is the\nsupreme event of the year. It has its song too. In the warm days of St\nMartin's summer, says the late Damase Arbaud, some worker in the olive\nwoods will begin to sing of a sudden--\n\n  Ai rescountrat ma mio--diluns.\n\nIt is a mere nonsense song respecting the meeting of a lover and his\nlass on every day of the week, she being each day on her way to buy\nprovisions, and he giving her the invariable advice that she had\nbetter come back, because it is raining. Were it the rarest poetry the\neffect could be hardly more beautiful than it is. When the first voice\nhas sung, \"I met my love ...\" ascending slowly from a low note, the\nwhole group of olive-gatherers take it up, then the next, and again\nthe next, till the country-side is made all musical by the swell and\nfall of sound sent forth from every grey coppice; and even long after\nthe nearer singers have ceased, others unseen in the distance still\nraise the high-pitched call, \"Come back, my love, come back! ... come\nback!\"\n\nOn the first of November it is customary in Provence for families\nto meet and dine. The fruits of the earth are garnered, the year's\nbusiness is over and done. The year has brought perhaps new faces into\nthe family; very likely it has taken old faces away. Towards evening\nthe bells begin to toll for the vigil of the feast of All Souls. Tears\ncome into the eyes of the older guests, and the children are hurried\noff to bed. Why should they be present at this letting loose of grief?\nTo induce them to retire with good grace, they are allowed to take\nwith them what is left of the dessert--chestnuts, or grapes, or figs.\nThe child puts a portion of his spoils at the bottom of his bed for\nthe _armettes_: so are called the spirits of the dead who are still in\na state of relation with the living, not being yet finally translated\ninto their future abode. Children are told that if they are good the\n_armettes_ will kiss them this night; if they are naughty, they will\nscratch their little feet.\n\nThe Provencal religious songs, poor though they are from a literary\npoint of view, yet possess more points of interest than can be\ncommonly looked for in folk-songs which treat of religion. They\ncontain frequent allusions to beliefs that have to be sought either\nin the earliest apocryphal writings of the Christian aera, or in the\nlately unearthed records of rabbinical tradition. Various of them\nhave regard to what is still, as M. Lentheric says, \"one of the great\npopular emotions of the South of France\"--the reputed presence there\nof Mary Magdalene. M. Lentheric is convinced that certain Jewish\nChristians, flying from persecution at home, did come to Provence\n(between the ports of which and the East there was constant\ncommunication) a short time after the Crucifixion. He is further\ninclined to give credit to the impression that Mary Magdalene and her\ncompanions were among these fugitives. I will not go into the reasons\nthat have been urged against the story by English and German scholars;\nit is enough for us that it is a popular credence of very ancient\norigin. One side issue of it is particularly worth noting. A little\nservant girl named Sara is supposed to have accompanied the Jewish\nemigrants, and her the gypsies of Provence have adopted as their\npatroness. Once a year they pay their respects to her tomb at Saintes\nMaries de la Mer. This is almost the only case in which the gypsy race\nhas shown any disposition to identify itself with a religious cultus.\nThe fairy legend of Tarascon is another offshoot from the main\ntradition. \"Have you seen the Tarasque?\" I was asked in the course\nof a saunter through that town one cold morning between the hours\nof seven and eight. It seemed that the original animal was kept in a\nstall. To stimulate my anxiety to make its acquaintance I was handed\nthe portrait of a beast, half hedgehog, half hippopotamus, out of\nwhose somewhat human jaw dangled the legs of a small boy. Later I\nheard the story from the lips of the sister of the landlord at the\nprimitive little inn; much did it gain from the vivacious grace of the\nnarrator, in whom there is as surely proof positive of a Greek descent\nas can be seen in any of the more famous daughters of Arles. \"When\nthe friends of our Lord landed in Provence, St Mary Magdalene went\nto Sainte Baume, St Lazarus to Marseilles, and St Martha came here to\nTarascon. Now there was a terrible monster called the Tarasque, which\nwas desolating all the country round and carrying off all the young\nchildren to eat. When St Martha was told of the straits the folks were\nin, she went out to meet the monster with a piece of red ribbon in her\nhand. Soon it came, snorting fire out of its nostrils; but the saint\nthrew the red ribbon over its neck, and lo! it grew quite still and\nquiet, and followed her back into the town as if it had been a good\ndog. To keep the memory of this marvel, we at Tarascon have a wooden\nTarasque, which we take round the town at Whitsuntide with much\nrejoicing. About once in twenty years there is a very grand _fete_\nindeed, and people come from far, far off. I have--naturally--seen\nthis grand celebration only once.\" A gleam of coquetry lit up the\nlong eyes: our friend clearly did not wish to be supposed to have an\nexperience ranging over too long a period. Then she went on, \"You must\nknow that at Beaucaire, just there across the Rhone, the folks have\nbeen always ready to die of jealousy of our Tarasque. Once upon a\ntime they thought they would have one as well as we; so they made the\nbiggest Tarasque that ever had been dreamt of. How proud they were!\nBut, alas! when the day came to take it round the town, it was found\nthat it would not come out of the door of the workshop! Ah! those dear\nBeaucairos!\" This I believe to be a pure fable, like the rest; to the\ngood people of Tarascon it appears the most pleasing part of the whole\nstory. My informant added, with a merry laugh, \"There came this way\nan Englishman--a very sceptical Englishman. When he heard about the\ndifficulty of the Beaucairos he asked, 'Why did they not have recourse\nto St Martha?'\"\n\nAs I have strayed into personal reminiscence, the record of one other\nitem of conversation will perhaps be allowed. That same morning I went\nto breakfast at the house of a Provencal friend to meet the ablest\nexponent of political positivism, the Radical deputy for Montmartre.\nOver our host's strawberries (strawberries never end at Tarascon) I\nimparted my newly acquired knowledge. When it came to the point of\nsaying that certain elderly persons were credibly stated to have\npreserved a lively faith in the authenticity of the legend, M.\nClemenceau listened with a look of such unmistakable concern that I\nsaid, half amused, \"You do not believe much in poetry?\" The answer\nwas characteristic. \"Yes, I believe in it much; but is it necessary\nto poetry that the people should credit such absurdities?\" Is it\nnecessary? Possibly Marius Trussy, who inveighs so passionately\nagainst \"lou progre,\" would say that it is. Anyhow the Tarasques of\nthe world are doomed; whether they will be without successors is a\ndifferent question. Some one has said that mankind has always lived\nupon illusions, and always will, the essential thing being to change\nthe nature of these illusions from time to time, so as to bring them\ninto harmony with the spirit of the age.\n\nProvencal folk-songs have but few analogies with the literature which\nheedlessly, though beyond recall, has been named Provencal. The poetry\nof the Miejour was a literary orchid of the fabulous sort that has\nneither root nor fruit. A chance stanza, addressed to some high-born\nBlancoflour, finds its way occasionally into the popular verse of\nProvence with the marks of lettered authorship still clinging to it;\nbut further than this the resemblance does not go. The love poets of\nthe people make use of a flower language, which is supposed to be a\nlegacy of the Moors. Thyme accompanies a declaration; the violet means\ndoubt or uneasiness; rosemary signifies complaint; nettles announce a\nquarrel. The course of true love nowhere flows less smoothly than\nin old Provence. As soon as a country girl is suspected of having a\nliking for some youth, she is set upon by her family as if she were\nguilty of a monstrous crime. A microscopic distinction of rank, a\ndivergence in politics, or a deficiency of money will be snatched\nas the excuse for putting the lover under the ban of absolute\nproscription. From the inexplicable obstacles placed in the way of\nlovers it follows that a large proportion of Provencal marriages\nare the result of an elopement. The expedient never fails; Provencal\nparents do not lock up their runaway daughters in convents where no\none can get at them. The delinquents are married as fast as possible.\nWhat is more, no evil is thought or spoken of them. To make assurance\ndoubly sure, a curious formality is observed. The girl calls upon two\npersons, secretly convened for the purpose, to bear witness that she\ncarries off her lover, who afterwards protests that his part in the\ncomedy was purely passive. In less than twenty years the same drama\nis enacted with Margarido, the daughter, in the _role_ of Mario the\nmother.\n\n  L'herbo que grio\n  Toujours reverdilho;\n  L'herbo d'amour\n  Reverdilho toujours.\n\nThe plant of love grows where there are young hearts; but how comes\nit that middle-aged hearts turn inevitably to cast iron? There is one\nsong which has the right to be accepted as the typical love-song of\nProvence. Mistral adapted it to his own use, and it figures in his\npoem as the \"Chanson de Majali.\" My translation follows as closely\nas may be after the popular version which is sung from the Comtat\nVenaissin to the Var:\n\n    Margaret! my first love,\n        Do not say me nay!\n    A morning music thou must have,\n        A waking roundelay.\n  --Your waking music irks me,\n        And irk me all who play;\n    If this goes on much longer\n        I'll drown myself one day.\n  --If this goes on much longer,\n        And thou wilt drown one day,\n    Why, then a swimmer I will be,\n        And save thee sans delay.\n  --If then a swimmer thou wilt be,\n        And save me sans delay,\n    Then I will be an eel, and slip\n        From 'twixt thy hands away.\n  --If thou wilt be an eel, and slip\n        From 'twixt my hands away,\n    Why, I will be the fisherman\n        Whom all the fish obey.\n  --If thou wilt be the fisherman\n        Whom all the fish obey,\n    Then I will be the tender grass\n        That yonder turns to hay.\n  --If thou wilt be the tender grass\n        That yonder turns to hay,\n    Why, then a mower I will be,\n        And mow thee in the may.\n  --If thou a mower then wilt be,\n        And mow me in the may,\n    I, as a little hare, will go\n        In yonder wood to stray.\n  --If thou a little hare wilt go\n        In yonder wood to stray,\n    Then will I come, a hunter bold,\n        And have thee as my prey.\n  --If thou wilt come a hunter bold\n        To have me as thy prey,\n    Then I will be the endive small\n        In yonder garden gay.\n  --If thou wilt be the endive small\n        In yonder garden gay,\n    Then I will be the falling dew,\n        And fall on thee alway.\n  --If thou wilt be the falling dew,\n        And fall on me alway,\n    Then I will be the white, white rose\n        On yonder thorny spray.\n  --If thou wilt be the white, white rose\n        On yonder thorny spray,\n    Then I will be the honey bee,\n        And kiss thee all the day.\n  --If thou wilt be the honey bee,\n        And kiss me all the day,\n    Then I will be in yonder heaven\n        The star of brightest ray.\n  --If thou wilt be in yonder heaven\n        The star of brighest ray,\n    Then I will be the dawn, and we\n        Shall meet at break of day.\n  --If thou wilt be the dawn, so we\n        May meet at break of day,\n    Then I will be a nun professed,\n        A nun of orders grey.\n  --If thou wilt be a nun professed,\n        A nun of orders grey,\n    Then I will be the prior, and thou\n        To me thy sins must say.\n  --If thou wilt be the prior, and I\n        To thee my sins must say,\n    Then will I sleep among the dead,\n        While the sisters weep and pray.\n  --If thou wilt sleep among the dead,\n        While the sisters weep and pray,\n    Then I will be the holy earth\n        That on thee they shall lay.\n  --If thou wilt be the holy earth\n        That on me they shall lay--\n    Well--since some gallant I must have,\n        I will not say thee nay.\n\nA distinguished French scholar thought that he heard in this an echo\nof Anacreon's ode [Greek: k' eus koren]. The inference suggested is\ntoo hazardous for acceptance; yet that in some sort the song may date\nfrom Greek Provence would seem to be the opinion even of cautious\ncritics. Thus we are led to look back to those associations which,\nwithout giving a personal or political splendour such as that attached\nto Magna Graecia, lend nevertheless to Provencal memories the exquisite\ncharm, the \"_bouquet_\" (if the word does not sound absurd) of all\nthings Greek. The legend of Greek beginnings in Provence will bear\nbeing once more told. Four hundred and ninety years before Christ a\nlittle fleet of Greek fortune-seekers left Phocaea, in Asia Minor, and\nput into a small creek on the Provencal coast, the port of the future\nMarseilles. As soon as they had disembarked, deeming it to be of\nimportance to them to stand well with the people of the land, they\nsent to the king of the tribes inhabiting those shores an ambassador\nbearing gifts and overtures of friendly intercourse. When the\nambassador reached Arles, Nann, the king, was giving a great feast\nto his warriors, from among whom his daughter Gyptis was that day to\nchoose a husband. The young Greek entered the banqueting-hall and\nsat down at the king's board. When the feasting was over, fair-haired\nGyptis, the royal maiden, rose from her seat and went straightway to\nthe strange guest; then, lifting in her hands the cup of espousal,\nshe offered it to his lips. He drank, and Provence became the bride of\nGreece.\n\nThe children of that marriage left behind them a graveyard to tell\ntheir history. Desecrated and despoiled though it is, still the\ngreat Arlesian cemetery bears unique witness as well to the civilised\nprosperity of the Provencal Greeks as to their decline under the\ninfluences which formed the modern Provence. Irreverence towards the\ndead--a comparatively new human characteristic--can nowhere be more\nfully observed than in the _Elysii Campi_ of Arles. The love of\ndestruction has been doing its worst there for some centuries. To any\nking coming to the town the townsfolk would make a gift of a priceless\ntreasure stolen from their dead ancestors, while the peasant who\nwanted a cattle trough, or the mason in need of a door lintel, went\nunrebuked and carried off what thing suited him. Not even the halo of\nChristian romance could save the Alyscamps. The legend is well known.\nSt Trefume, man or myth, summoned the bishops of Gaul and Provence to\nthe consecration of this burial-ground. When they were assembled and\nthe rite was to be performed, each one shrank from taking on himself\nso high an office; then Christ appeared in their midst and made the\nsign of the cross over the sleeping-place of the pagan dead. Out\nof the countless stories of the meeting of the new faith and the\nold--stories too often of a nascent or an expiring fanaticism, there\nis not one which breathes a gentler spirit. It was long believed, that\nthe devil had little power with the dead that lay in Arles. Hence\nthe multitude of sepulchres which Dante saw _ove 'l Rodano stagna_.\nPrinces and archbishops and an innumerable host of minor folks left\ninstructions that they might be buried in the Alyscamps. A simple mode\nof transport was adopted by the population of the higher Rhone valley.\nThe body, bound to a raft or bier, was committed to the current of the\nriver, with a sum of money called the \"drue de mourtalage\" attached\nto it. These silent travellers always reached their destination in\nsafety, persons appointed to the task being in readiness to receive\nthem. The sea water washed the limits of the cemetery in the days of\nthe Greeks, who looked across the dark, calm surface of the immense\nlagune and thought of dying as of embarkation upon a voyage--not the\nlast voyage of the body down the river of life, but the first voyage\nof the soul over the sea of death--and they wished their dead [Greek:\neuploi].\n\nThe Greek traces that exist in the living people of Provence are\nfew, but distinct. There is, in the first place, the type of beauty\nparticularly associated with the women of Arles. As a rule, the\nProvencal woman is not beautiful; nor is she very willing to admit\nthat her Arlesian sisters are one whit more beautiful than she. The\nsecret of their fame is interpreted by her in the stereotyped remark,\n\"C'est la coiffe!\" But the coif of Arles, picturesque though it is in\nits stern simplicity, could not change an ugly face into a pretty one,\nand the wearers of it are well entitled to the honour they claim as\ntheir birthright. Scarcely due attention has been paid to the good\nlooks of the older and even of the aged women; I have not seen their\nequals save among a face of quite another type, the Teutonic amazons\nof the Val Mastalone. In countries where the sun is fire, if youth\ndoes not always mean beauty, beauty means almost always youth. M.\nLentheric thinks that he detects a second clear trace of the Greeks\nin the horn wrestling practised all over the dried-up lagune which the\nfork of the Rhone below Arles forms into an island. Astride of their\nwild white steeds, the horsemen drive one of the superb black bulls of\nthe Camargue towards a group of young men on foot, who, catching him\nby his horns, wrestle with him till he is forced to bend the knee and\nbite the dust. The amusement is dangerous, but it is not brutal. The\nhorses escape unhurt, so does the bull; the risk is for the men alone,\nand it is a risk voluntarily and eagerly run. So popular is the\nsport that it is difficult to prevent children from joining in it. In\nThessaly it was called [Greek: keratisis], and the bull in the act of\nsubmission is represented on a large number of Massaliote and other\ncoins.\n\nMarseilles, which has lost the art and the type of Greece, has kept\nthe Greek temperament. It is no more French than Naples is Italian:\nboth are Greek towns, though the characteristics that prove them such\nhave been somewhat differentiated by unlike external conditions. Still\nthey have points in common which are many and strong. Marsalia can\nmatch in _emeutes_ the proverbial _quattordici rebellioni_ of \"loyal\"\nParthenope; and quickness of intelligence, love of display, mobility\nof feeling, together with an astounding vitality, belong as much\nto Marseillais as to Neapolitan. The people of Marseilles, the most\nthriftless in France, have thriven three thousand years, and are\nthriving now, in spite of the readiness of each small middle-class\nfamily to lay out a half-year's savings on a breakfast at Roubion's;\nin spite of the alacrity with which each working man sacrifices a\nweek's wages in order to \"demonstrate\" in favour of, or still better\nagainst, no matter whom or what. Nowhere is there a more overweening\nlocal pride. \"Paris,\" say the Marseillais, \"would be a fine town if it\nhad our _Cannebiere_.\" Nowhere, as has been made lamentably plain,\nare the hatreds of race and caste and politics more fierce or more\nruthless. Even with her own citizens Marseilles is stern; only after\nprotest does she grant a monument to Adolphe Thiers--himself just\na Greek Massaliote thrown into the French political arena. There is\nreason to think that Greek was a spoken tongue at Marseilles at least\nas late as the sixth century A.D. The Sanjanen, the fisherman of St\nJohn's Quarter, has still a whole vocabulary of purely Greek terms\nincidental to his calling. The Greek character of the speech of the\nMarseillais sailors was noticed by the Abbe Papon, who attributed\nto the same source the peculiar prosody and intonation of the\nstreet cries of Marseilles. The Provencal historian remarks, with an\nacuteness rare in the age in which he wrote (the early part of the\nlast century), \"I draw my examples from the people, because it is with\nthem that we must seek the precious remains of ancient manners and\nusages. Amongst the great, amongst people of the world, one sees only\nthe imprint of fashion, and fashion never stands still.\"\n\nThe Sanjanens are credited with the authorship of this cynical little\nsong:\n\n  Fisher, fishing in the sea,\n  Fish my mistress up for me.\n\n  Fish her up before she drowns,\n  Thou shalt have four hundred crowns.\n\n  Fish her for me dead and cold,\n  Thou shalt have my all in gold.\n\nThe romantic ballads of Provence are of an importance which demands,\nproperly speaking, a separate study. Provence was, beyond a doubt,\none of the main sources of the ballad literature of France, Spain, and\nItaly. That certain still existing Provencal ballads passed over into\nPiedmont as early as the thirteenth century is the opinion of Count\nNigra, the Italian diplomatist, not the least of whose distinguished\nservices to his country has been the support he was one of the first\nto give to the cause of popular research. In all these songs the\nplot goes for everything, the poetry for little or nothing; I shall\ntherefore best economise my space by giving a rough outline of the\nstories of two or three of them. \"Fluranco\" is a characteristic\nspecimen. Fluranco, \"la flour d'aquest pays,\" was married when she was\na little thing, and her husband at once went away to the wars. Monday\nthey were wed, Tuesday he was gone. At the end of seven years the\nknight comes back, knocks at the door, and asks for Fluranco. His\nmother says that she is no longer here; they sent her to fetch water,\nand the Moors, the Saracen Moors, carried her off. \"Where did they\ntake her to?\" \"They took her a hundred leagues away.\" The knight makes\na ship of gold and silver; he sails and sails without seeing aught but\nthe washer-women washing fine linen. At last he asks of them: \"Tell\nme whose tower is that, and to whom that castle belongs.\" \"It is the\ncastle of the Saracen Moor.\" \"How can I get into it?\" \"Dress yourself\nas a poor pilgrim, and ask alms in Christ's name.\" In this way he\ngains admittance, and Fluranco (she it is) bids the servant set the\ntable for the \"poor pilgrim.\" When the knight is seated at table,\nFluranco begins to laugh. \"What are you laughing at, Madamo?\" She\nconfesses that she knows who he is. They collect a quantity of fine\ngold; then they go the stable, and she mounts the russet horse and he\nmounts the grey. Just as they are crossing the bridge the Moor sees\nthem. \"Seven years,\" he cries, \"I have clothed thee in fine damask,\nseven years I have given thee morocco shoes, seven years I have laid\nthee in fine linen, seven years I have kept thee--for one of my sons!\"\nThe carelessness or cruelty of a stepmother (the head-wife of Asiatic\ntales) is a prolific central idea in Provencal romance. While the\nhusband was engaged in distant adventures--tournaments, feudal wars,\nor crusading expeditions--the wife, who was often little more than a\nchild, remained at the mercy of the occasionally unamiable dowager who\nruled the masterless _chateau_. The case of cruelty is exemplified\nin the story of Guilhem de Beauvoire, who has to leave his child-wife\nfive weeks after marriage. \"I counsel you, mother,\" he says as he sets\nout, \"to put her to do no kind of work: neither to fetch water, nor\nto spin, nor yet to knead bread. Send her to mass, and give her good\ndinners, and let her go out walking with other ladies.\" At the end of\nfive weeks the mother put the young wife to keep swine. The swine girl\nwent up to the mountain top and sang and sang. Guilhem de Beauvoire,\nwho was beyond the sea, said to his page, \"Does it not seem as though\nmy wife were singing?\" He travels at all speed over mountain and sea\ntill he comes to his home, where no man knows him. On the way he meets\nthe swine girl, and from her he hears that she has to eat only that\nwhich is rejected of the swine. At the house he is welcomed as an\nhonoured guest; supper is laid for him, and he asks that the swine\ngirl whom he has seen may come and sup with him. When she sits down\nbeside him the swine girl bursts into tears. \"Why do you weep, swine\ngirl?\" \"For seven years I have not supped at table!\" Then in the\nbitterness of yet another outrage to which the vile woman subjects\nher, she cries aloud, \"Oh! Guilhem de Beauvoire, who art beyond\nthe sea, God help thee! Verily thy cruel mother has abandoned me!\"\nSecretly Guilhem tells her who he is, and in proof of it shows her the\nring she gave him. In the morning the mother calls the swine girl to\ngo after her pigs. \"If you were not my mother,\" says Guilhem, \"I would\nhave you hung; as you are my mother, I will wall you up between two\nwalls.\"\n\nThe antiquity of the ballads of _Fluranco_ and _Guilhem de Beauvoire_\nis shown by the fact that they plainly belong to a time when such work\nas fetching water or making bread was regarded as amongst the likely\nemployments of noble ladies--though, from excess of indulgence,\nGuilhem did not wish his wife to be set even to these light tasks. A\nballad, probably of about the same date, treats the case of a man who,\nthrough the weakness which is the cause of half the crimes, becomes\nthe agent of his mother's guilt. The tragedy is unfolded with almost\nthe sublime laconicism of the _Divina Commedia_. Francoiso was married\nwhen she was so young that she did not know how to do the service, and\nthe cruel mother was always saying to her son that Francoiso must die.\nOne day, after the young wife had laid the table, and had set thereon\nthe wine and the bread, and the fresh water, her husband said to her,\n\"My Francoiso, is there not anyone, no friend, who shall protect thy\nlife?\" \"I have my mother and my father, and you, who are my husband,\nvery well will you protect my life.\" Then, as they sit at meat, he\ntakes a knife and kills her; and he lifts her in his arms and kisses\nher, and lays her under the flower of the jessamine, and he goes to\nhis mother and says, \"My mother, your greatest wish is fulfilled: I\nhave killed Francoiso.\"\n\nThe genuine Provencal does not shrink from violence. Old inhabitants\nstill tell tales of the savage brigandage of the Esterel, of the\nhorrors of the _Terreur blanche_. Mild manners and social amenities\nhave never been characteristic of fair Provence. Even now the peasant\ncannot disentangle his thoughts without a volley of oaths--harmless\nindeed, for the most part (except those which are borrowed from\nthe _franciots_), but in sound terrific. Yet if it be true that the\ncharacter of a nation is asserted in its songs, it must be owned that\nthe songs of Provence speak favourably for the Provencal people. They\nsay that they are a people who have a steady and abiding sympathy\nwith honest men and virtuous women. They say further that rough and\nruthless though they may be when their blood is stirred, yet have they\na pitiful heart. The Provencal singer is slow to utterly condemn;\nhe grasps the saving inconsistencies of human nature; he makes the\nmurderer lay his victim \"souto lou flour dou jaussemin:\" under the\nwhite jessamine flower, cherished beyond all flowers in Provence,\nwhich has a strange passion for white things--white horses, white\ndogs, white sheep, white doves, and the fair white hand of woman. Many\nsongs deal directly with almsgivings, the ritual of pity. To no part\nof the Bible is there more frequent reference than to the parable of\nthe rich man and Lazarus; no neocatholic legend has been more gladly\naccepted than the story in which some tattered beggar proves to\nbe Christ--a story, by the by, that holds in it the essence of the\nChristian faith. If a Greek saw a beautiful unknown youth playing his\npipe beside some babbling stream, he believed him to be a god; the\nChristian of the early ages recognised Christ in each mendicant\nin loathsome rags, in each leper succoured at the risk of mortal\ninfection.\n\nThe Provencal tongue is not a mixture (as is too often said) of\nItalian and French; nor is physical Provence a less fair Italy or a\nfairer France. A land wildly convulsed in its storms, mysteriously\nbreathless in its calms; a garden here, a desert there; a land of\ntranslucent inlets and red porphyry hills; before all, a land of the\nillimitable grey of olive and limestone--this is Provence. Anyone\nfinding himself of a sudden where the Provencal olives raise their\ndwarf heads with a weary look of eternity to the rainless heaven,\nwould say that the dominant feature in the landscape was its exceeding\nseriousness. Sometimes on the coast the prevailing note changes from\ngrey to blue; the blanched rocks catch the colour of the sea, and not\nthe sky only, but dry fine air close around seems of a blueness so\nintense as to make the senses swim. Better suited to a Nature thus\nmade up of crude discords and subtle harmonies is the old Provencal\nspeech, howsoever corrupt, than the exquisite French of Parisian\n_salons_. But the language goes and the songs go too. Damase Arbaud\nrelates how, when he went on a long journey to speak with a man\nreported to have cognisance of much traditional matter, he met,\nissuing from the house door, not the man, but his coffin. The fact\nis typical; the old order of things passes away: _nouastei diou se'n\nvan_.\n\n    [Footnote 1: I am told that the peasants of the country round\n    Moscow have a natural gift for imitating birds, and that they\n    intersperse the singing of their own sad songs with this sweet\n    carolling.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE PATERNOSTER.\n\n\nIn a paper published under the head of \"Chaucer's Night Spell\" in the\nFolk-lore Record (part i. p. 145), Mr Thoms drew attention to four\nlines spoken by the carpenter in Chaucer's _Miller's Tale_:\n\n  Lord Jhesu Crist, and seynte Benedyht\n  Blesse this hous from every wikked wight,\n  Fro nyghtes verray, the White Paternostre\n  When wonestow now, seynte Petres soster.\n\n(\"Verray\" is commonly supposed to mean night-mare, but Mr Thoms\nreferred it to \"Werra,\" a Sclavonic deity.)\n\nMention of the White Paternoster occurs again in White's _Way to the\nTrue Church_ (1624):\n\n  White Paternoster, Saint Peter's brother,\n  What hast i' th t'one hand? white booke leaves,\n  What hast i' th t'other hand? heaven gate keyes.\n  Open heaven gates, and streike (shut) hell gates:\n  And let every crysome child creepe to its own mother.\n                                White Paternoster, Amen.\n\nA reading of the formula is preserved in the _Enchiridion Papae\nLeonis_, a book translated into French soon after its first appearance\nin Latin at Rome in 1502:\n\n    Au soir, m'allant coucher, je trouvis trois anges a mon lit\n    couches, un aux pieds, deux au chevet, la bonne Vierge Marie\n    du milieu, qui me dit que je me couchis, que rien ne doutis.\n    Le bon Dieu est mon Pere, la bonne Vierge est ma mere, les\n    trois vierges sont mes s[oe]urs. La chemise ou Dieu fut ne,\n    mon corps en est enveloppe; la croix Sainte Marguerite a ma\n    poitrine est ecrite; madame d'en va sur les champs a Dieu\n    pleurant, rencontrit Monsieur Saint Jean. Monsieur Saint Jean,\n    d'ou venez vous? Je viens d' _Ave Salus_. Vous n'avez pas vu\n    le bon Dieu; si est, il est dans l'arbre de la croix, les\n    pieds pendans, les mains clouans, un petit chapeau d'epine\n    blanche sur la tete.\n\n    Qui la dira trois fois au soir, trois fois au matin, gagnera\n    le Paradis a la fin.\n\nCurious as are the above citations, they only go a little way towards\nfilling up the blanks in the history of this waif from the fabric\nof early Christian popular lore. A search of some years has yielded\nevidence that the White Paternoster is still a part of the living\ntraditional matter of at least five European countries. Most persons\nare familiar with the English version which runs thus:\n\n  Four corners to my bed,\n  Four angels round my head,\n  One to watch, one to pray,\n  And two to bear my soul away.\n\nA second English variant was set on record by Aubrey, and may also be\nread in Ady's \"Candle in the Dark\" (1655):\n\n  Matthew, Mark, Luke, John,\n  Bless the bed that I lye on;\n  And blessed guardian angel keep\n  Me safe from danger while I sleep.\n\nHalliwell suggests that the two last lines were imitated from the\nfollowing in Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn:\n\n  Let my blest guardian, while I sleep,\n  His watchful station near me keep.\nBut if there was any imitation in the case, it was the bishop who\ncopied from the folk-rhymer, not the folk-rhymer from the bishop.\n\nThe thought of the coming of death in sleep, is expressed in a prayer\nthat may be sometimes seen inscribed at the head and foot of the bed\nin Norwegian homesteads:\n\nHEAD.\n\n  Here is my bed and sleeping place;\n  God, let me sleep in peace\n  And blithe open my eyes\n  And go to work.\n\nFOOT.\n\n  Go into thy bed, take thee a slumber,\n  Reflect now on the last hour;\n  Reflect now,\n  That thou mayest take thy last slumber.\n\nAnalogous in spirit is a quatrain that has been known to me since\nchildhood, but which I do not remember to have seen in print:\n\n  I lay me down to rest me,\n  And pray the Lord to bless me.\n  If I should sleep no more to wake\n  I pray the Lord my soul to take.\n\nThe _Petite Patenotre Blanche_ lingers in France in a variety of\nshapes. One version was written down as late as 1872 from the mouth of\nan old woman named Catherine Bastien, an inhabitant of the department\nof the Loire. It was afterwards communicated to _Melusine_.\n\n                   Jesu m'endort,\n  Si je trepasse, mande mon corps,\n  Si je trepasse, mande mon ame,\n  Si je vis, mande mon esprit.\n  (Je) prends les anges pour mes amis,\n        Le bon Dieu pour mon pere,\n        La Sainte Vierge pour ma mere,\n        Saint Louis de Gonzague,\n        Aux quatre coins de ma chambre,\n        Aux quatre coins be mon lit;\n        Preservez moi de l'ennemi,\n        Seigneur, a l'heure de ma mort.\n\nQuenot, in his _Statistique de la Charante_ (1818), gives the\nsubjoined:\n\n              Dieu l'a faite, je la dit;\n  J'ai trouve quatre anges couches dans mon lit;\n              Deux a la tete, deux aux pieds,\n              Et le bon Dieu aux milieu.\n              De quoi puis-je avoir peur?\n              Le bon Dieu est mon pere,\n                  La Vierge ma mere,\n                  Les saints mes freres,\n                  Les saints mes s[oe]urs;\n                  Le bon Dieu m'a dit:\n                  Leve-toi, couche-toi,\n  Ne crains rien; le feu, l'orage, et la tempete\n              Ne peuvent rien contre toi.\n  Saint Jean, Saint Marc, Saint Luc, et St Matthieu,\n              Qui mettez les ames en repos,\n              Mettez-y la mienne si Dieu veut.\n\nIn Provence many a worthy country woman repeats each night this\n_preiro doou soir_:--\n\n      Au liech de Diou\n      Me couche iou,\n  Sept anges n'en trouve iou,\n      Tres es peds,\n      Quatre au capet (caput--head);\n  La Buoeno Mero es au mitan\n  Uno roso blanco a la man.\n\nThe white rose borne by the Good Mother is a pretty and characteristic\ninterpolation peculiar to flower-loving Provence. In the conclusion\nof the prayer the _Boueno Mero_ tells whosoever recites it to have no\nfear of dog or wolf, or wandering storm or running water, or shining\nfire, or any evil folk. M. Damase Arbaud got together a number of\nother devotional fragments that may be regarded as offshoots from the\nparent stem. St Joseph, \"Nourricier de Diou,\" is asked to preserve the\nsupplicant from sudden death, \"et de l'infer et de ses flammos.\"\nSt Ann, \"mero-grand de Jesus Christ,\" is prayed to teach the way to\nParadise. To St Denis a very practical petition is addressed:\n\n  Grand Sant Danis de Franco,\n  Gardetz me moun bouen sens, ma boueno remembranco.\n\nAnother verse points distinctly to a desire for protection against\nwitchcraft. The Provencals, by the bye, are of opinion that the\n_Angelus_ was instituted to scare away any ill-conditioned spirits\nthat might be tempted out by the approach of night.\n\nIn Germany the guardian saints are dispensed with, but the angels are\nretained in force. I am indebted to Mr C. G. Leland for a translation\nof the most popular German even-song:\n\n  Fourteen angels in a band\n  Every night around me stand.\n      Two to my left hand,\n        Two to my right,\n      Who watch me ever\n        By day and night.\n      Two at my head,\n        Two at my feet,\n      To guard my slumber\n        Soft and sweet;\n      Two to wake me\n        At break of day,\n      When night and darkness\n        Pass away;\n      Two to cover me\n        Warm and nice,\n      And two to lead me\n        To Paradise.\n\nPassing on to Italy we find an embarrassing abundance of folk-prayers\nframed after the self-same model. The repose of the Venetian is under\nthe charge of the Perfect Angel, the Angel of God, St Bartholomew, the\nBlessed Mother, St Elizabeth, the Four Evangelists, and St John the\nBaptist. Venetian children are taught to say: \"I go to bed, I know not\nif I shall arise. Thou, Lord, who knowest, keep good watch over me.\nBefore my soul separates from my body, give me help and good comfort.\nIn the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, so be it.\nBless my heart and my soul!\" The Venetians also have a \"Paternoster\npichenin,\" and a \"Paternoster grande,\" both of which are, in their\nexisting form, little else than nonsense. The native of the Marches\ngoes to his rest accompanied by our Lord, the Madonna, the Four\nEvangelists, _l'Angelo perfetto_, four greater angels, and three\nothers--one at the foot, one at the head, one in the middle. The\nTuscan, like the German, has only angels around him: of these he has\nseven--one at the head, one at the foot, two at the sides, one to\ncover him, one to watch him, and one to bear him to Paradise. The\nSicilian says: \"I lay me down in this bed, with Jesus on my breast. I\nsleep and he watches. In this bed where I am laid, five saints I find:\ntwo at the head, two at the feet, in the middle is St Michael.\"\n\nPerhaps the best expression of the belief in the divine guardians of\nsleep is that given to it by an ancient Sardinian poet:--\n\n  Su letto meo est de battor cantones,\n  Et battor anghelos si bie ponen;\n  Duos in pes, et duos in cabitta,\n  Nostra Segnora a costazu m'ista.\n  E a me narat: Dormi e reposa,\n  No hapas paura de mala cosa,\n  No hapas paura de mala fine.\n        S' Anghelu Serafine,\n        S' Anghelu Biancu,\n        S' Ispiridu Santu,\n        Sa Vigine Maria,\n  Tote siant in cumpagnia mea.\n        Anghelu de Deu,\n        Custodio meo,\n        Custa nott' illuminame!\n  Guarda e difende a me\n  Ca eo mi incommando a tie.\n\n    My bed has four corners and four angels standing by it. Two at\n    the foot and two at the head; our Lady is beside me. And to me\n    she says, \"Sleep and repose; have no fear of evil things; have\n    no fear of an evil end.\" The angel Serafine, the angel\n    Blanche, the Holy Spirit, the Virgin Mary--all are here to\n    keep me company. Angel of God, thou my guardian, illuminate me\n    this night. Watch and defend me, for I commend myself to thee.\n\nA Spanish verse, so near to this that it would be needless to give it\na separate translation, was sent by a friend who at that time was in\nthe Royal College of Santa Ysabel at Madrid:\n\n  Quatro pirondelitas\n    Tiene mi cama;\n  Quatro angelitos\n    Me la acompana.\n  La madre de dios\n    Esta enmedio,\n  Dicendome:\n    Duerme y reposa,\n  Que no te sucedera\n    Ninguna mala cosa.\n\n  Amen.\n\nIn harmony with the leading idea of the White Paternoster, the\nrecumbent figures of the Archbishops in Canterbury Cathedral have\nangels kneeling at each corner of their altar tombs. It is worth\nremarking, too, how certain English lettered compositions have become\ntruly popular through the fact of their introducing the same idea.\nA former Dean of Canterbury once asked an old woman, who lived alone\nwithout chick or child, whether she said her prayers? \"Oh! yes,\" was\nthe reply, \"I say every night of my life,\n\n  \"Hush, my babe, lie still in slumber,\n  Holy angels guard thy bed!\"\n\nThe White Paternoster itself, in the form of \"Matthew, Mark, Luke,\nJohn,\" was, till lately, a not uncommon evening prayer in the\nagricultural parts of Kent. At present the orthodox night and morning\nprayers of the people in Catholic countries are the Lord's Prayer,\n_Credo_ and _Ave Maria_, but to these, as has been seen, the White\nPaternoster is often added, and at the date of the Reformation--when\nthe \"Hail Mary\" had scarcely come into general use--it is probable\nthat it was rarely omitted. Prayers that partake of the nature of\ncharms, have always been popular, and people have ever indulged in\nodd, little roundabout devices to increase the efficacy of even the\nmost sacred words. Boccaccio, for instance, speaks of \"the Paternoster\nof San Giuliano,\" which seems to have been a Paternoster said for\nthe repose of the souls of the father and mother of St Julian, in\ngratitude for which attention, the Saint was bound to give a good\nnight's lodging. It remains to be asked, why the White Paternoster is\ncalled white? In the actual state of our knowledge, the reason is not\napparent; but possibly the term is to be taken simply in an\napologetic sense, as when applied to a stated form of dealing with\nthe supernatural. White charms had a recognised place in popular\nextra-belief. It was sweet to be able to compel the invisible powers\nto do what you would, and yet to feel secure from uncomfortable\nconsequences. Of course, in such a case, the thing willed must be of\nan innocent nature. The Breton who begs vengeance of St Yves, knows\ntolerably well that what he is doing is very black indeed, even though\nthe saint were ten times a saint. Topsy-turvy as may be his moral\nperceptions, he would not call this procedure a \"white charm.\" He\nhas, however, white charms of his own, one of which was described with\ngreat spirit by Auguste Brizeux, the Breton poet who wove many of the\nwild superstitions of his country into picturesque verse. Brizeux'\npoems are not very well known either in France or out of it, but they\nshould be dear to students of folk-lore. The following is a version of\n\"La Poussiere Sainte:\"\n\n  Sweeping an ancient chapel through the night\n  (A ruin now), built 'neath a rocky height,\n  The aged Coulm's old wife was muttering,\n  As if some secret strange abroad to fling.\n\n  \"I brave, thee tempest, and will do alone\n  What by my grand-dame in her youth was done,\n  When at her beck (of Leon's land, the pride),\n  The ocean, lion-headed, curbed its tide.\n\n  \"Sweep, sweep, my broom, until my charm uprears\n  A force more strong than sighs, more strong than tears:\n  Charm loved of heaven, which forces wind and wave,\n  Though fierce and mad, our children's lives to save.\n\n  \"My angel knows, a Christian true am I;\n  No Pagan, nor in league with sorcery.\n  Hence I dispense to the four winds of God,\n  To quell their rage, dust from the holy sod.\n\n  \"Sweep on my broom; by virtues such as these\n  Oft through the air I scattered swarms of bees.\n  And you, old Coulm, to-morrow shall be prest,\n  You, and my children three, against my breast.\"\n\n  In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier along\n  Pressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng.\n  And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash,\n  And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash;\n  Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed,\n  Through superstition, speechless, while afraid.\n  Still as the port a sail did safely reach,\n  All shouting hurried forward to the beach:\n  \"Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?\"\n  Others, \"Hast seen my son?\" \"My brother, you?\"\n  \"Brave man, the truth, whate'er has happened, say,\n  Am I a widow?\" Night in such dismay\n  Dragged 'neath a sky without a moon or star.\n  Thank God! Meanwhile all boats in safety are,\n  And every hearth is blazing--all save one,\n  The Columban's. But that was void and lone.\n  But you, Coulm's wife, still battle with the storm,\n  Fixed on the rocks, your task you still perform,--\n  You cast, towards east, towards west, and towards the north,\n  And towards the south, your incantations forth.\n\n  \"Go, holy dust, 'gainst all the winds that fly.\n  No sorceress, but a Christian true am I.\n  By the lamp's light, when I the fire had lit,\n  In God's own house, my hands collected it.\n\n  \"You from the statues of the saints I swept,\n  And silken flags, still on the pillars kept,\n  And the dark tombs, of those whose sons neglect,\n  But you, with your white winding-sheet protect.\n\n  \"Go, holy dust! To stem the winds depart!\n  Born beneath Christian feet, thou glorious art:\n  When from the porch, I to the altar sped,\n  I seemed upon some heavenly path to tread.\n\n  \"On you the deacons and the priests have trod,\n  Pilgrims who live, forefathers 'neath the sod;\n  Wood flowers, sweet grains of incense, saintly bones;\n  By dawn you will restore my spouse and sons.\"\n\n    She ceased her charm; and from the chapel then\n    She saw approach four bare-foot fishermen.\n    The aged dame in tears fell on her knees\n    And cried, \"I knew they would escape the seas!\"\n    Then cleansing sand and sea-weed o'er them spread,\n    With happy lips she kissed each cherished head.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIFFUSION OF BALLADS.\n\nI.--LORD RONALD IN ITALY.\n\n\nSeveral causes have combined to give the professional minstrel a more\ntenacious hold on life in Italy than in France or Germany or England.\nOne of them is, that Italian culture has always been less dependent\non education--or what the English poor call \"book-learning\"--than the\nculture of those countries.\n\nTo this day you may count upon finding a blind ballad-singer in every\nItalian city. The connection of blindness with popular songs is a\nnoteworthy thing. It is not, perhaps, a great exaggeration to say\nthat, had there been no blind folks in the world, there would have\nbeen few ballads. Who knows, indeed, but that Homer would not have\nearned his bread by bread-making instead of by enchanting the children\nand wise men of all after-ages, had he not been \"one who followed\na guide\"? Every one remembers how it was the singing of a \"blinde\ncrowder, with no rougher voice than rude style,\" that moved the heroic\nheart of Sidney more than the blare of trumpets. Every one may not\nknow that in the East of Europe and in Armenia, \"blinde crowders\"\nstill wander from village to village, carrying, wheresoever they go,\nthe songs of a former day and the news of the latest hour;\nacting, after a fashion, as professors of history and \"special\ncorrespondents,\" and keeping alive the sentiment of nationality\nunder circumstances in which, except for their agency, it must almost\nwithout a doubt have expired.\n\nWhen the Austrians occupied Trebinje in the Herzegovina, they forbade\nthe playing of the \"guzla,\" the little stringed instrument which\naccompanies the ballads; but the ballads will not be forgotten.\nProscription does not kill a song. What kills it sometimes, if it have\na political sense, is the fulfilment of the hopes it expresses; then\nit may die a natural death. I hunted all over Naples for some one who\ncould sing a song which every Neapolitan, man and boy, hummed through\nthe year when the Redshirts brought freedom: _Camicia rossa, camicia\nardente_. It seemed that there was not one who still knew it. Just as\nI was on the point of giving up the search, a blind man was produced\nout of a tavern at Posilippo; a poor creature in threadbare clothes,\nholding a wretched violin. He sang the words with spirit and pathos;\nhe is old, however, and perhaps the knowledge of them will not survive\nhim.\n\nOur present business is not with songs of a national or local\ninterest, but with those which can hardly be said to belong to any\ncountry in particular. And, first of all, we have to go back to a\ncertain _Camillo, detto il Bianchino cieco fiorentino_, who sang\nballads at Verona in the year 1629, and who had printed for the\ngreater diffusion of his fame a sort of rhymed advertisement\ncontaining the first few lines of some twenty songs that belonged to\nhis repertory. Last but one of these samples stands the following:\n\n  \"Dov' andastu jersera,\n  Figlioul mio ricco, savio e gentil;\n  Dov' andastu jersera?\"\n\n\"When I come to look at it,\" adds Camillo, \"this is too long; it ought\nto have been the first to be sung\"--alluding, of course, to the song,\nnot to the sample.\n\nLater in the same century, the ballad mentioned above had the honour\nof being cited before a more polite audience than that which was\nprobably in the habit of listening to the blind Florentine. On\nthe 24th of September 1656, Canon Lorenzo Panciatichi reminded\nhis fellow-academicians of the Crusca of what he called \"a fine\nobservation\" that had been made regarding the song:\n\n  \"Dov' andastu a cena figlioul mio\n  Ricco, savio, e gentile?\"\n\nThe observation (continued the Canon) turned on the answer the son\nmakes to the mother when she asks him what his sweetheart gave him for\nsupper. \"She gave me,\" says the son, \"_un' anguilla arrosto cotta\nnel pentolin dell' olio_.\" The idea of a roasted eel cooked in an oil\npipkin offended the academical sense of the fitness of things; it had\ntherefore been proposed to say instead that the eel was hashed:\n\n  \"Madonna Madre,\n  Il cuore sta male,\n  Per un anguilla in guazzetto.\"\n\nHad we nothing to guide us beyond these fragments, there could be no\nquestion but that in this Italian ballad we might safely recognise\none of the most spirited pieces in the whole range of popular\nliterature--the song of Lord Ronald, otherwise Rowlande, or Randal, or\n\"Billy, my son:\"\n\n  \"O where hae ye been, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"I hae been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,\n  For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.\"\n\n  \"Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"I dined wi' my love; mother, make my bed soon,\n  For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.\"\n\n  \"What gat ye to dinner, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  What gat ye to dinner, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"I gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon,\n  For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.\"\n\n  \"And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,\n  For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie down.\"\n\n  \"O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Ronald, my son!\n  O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!\"\n  \"O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,\n  For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down.\"\n\nThis version, which I quote from Mr Allingham's _Ballad Book_ (1864),\nends here; so does that given by Sir Walter Scott in the _Border\nMinstrelsy_. There is, however, another version which goes on:\n\n  \"What will ye leave to your father, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  What will ye leave to your father, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"Baith my houses and land; mither, mak' my bed sune\n  For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.\"\n\n  \"What will ye leave to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  What will ye leave to your brither, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"My horse and my saddle; mither, mak' my bed sune,\n  For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.\"\n\n  \"What will ye leave to your sister, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  What will ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"Baith my gold box and rings; mither, mak' my bed sune,\n  For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie doun.\"\n\n  \"What will ye leave to your true love, Lord Ronald, my son?\n  What will ye leave to your true love, my handsome young man?\"\n  \"The tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree,\n  And let her hang there for the poisoning o' me.\"\n\nLord Ronald has already been met with, though somewhat disguised, both\nin Germany and in Sweden, but his appearance two hundred and fifty\nyears ago at Verona has a peculiar interest attached to it. That\nEngland shares most of her songs with the Northern nations is a fact\nfamiliar to all; but, unless I am mistaken, this is almost the first\ntime of discovering a purely popular British ballad in an Italian\ndress.\n\nIt so happens that to the fragments quoted by Camillo and the Canon\ncan be added the complete story as sung at the present date in\nTuscany, Venetia, and Lombardy. Professor d'Ancona has taken pains to\ncollate the slightly different texts, because few Italian folk-songs\nnow extant can be traced even as far back as the seventeenth century.\nThe learned Professor, whose great antiquarian services are well\nknown, does not seem to be aware that the song has currency out of\nItaly. The best version is one set down from word of mouth in the\ndistrict of Como, and of this I subjoin a literal rendering:\n\n      \"Where were you yester eve?\n  My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      Where were you yester eve?\"\n      \"I with my love abode;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      I with my love abode;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"What supper gave she you?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What supper gave she you?\"\n      \"I supped on roasted eel;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      I supped on roasted eel;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"And did you eat it all?\n  My son, beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      And did you eat it all?\"\n      \"Only the half I eat;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      Only the half I eat;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"Where went the other half?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      Where went the other half?\"\n      \"I gave it to the dog;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      I gave it to the dog;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die?\"\n\n      \"What did you with the dog?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What did you with the dog?\"\n      \"It died upon the way;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      It died upon the way;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"Poisoned it must have been!\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      Poisoned it must have been!\"\n      \"Quick for the doctor send;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      Quick for the doctor send;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\n\n      \"Wherefore the doctor call?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      Wherefore the doctor call?\"\n      \"That he may visit me;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      That he may visit me;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n      \"Quick for the parson send;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      Quick for the parson send;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"Wherefore the parson call?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      Wherefore the parson call?\"\n      \"So that I may confess;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      So that I may confess;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n      \"Send for the notary;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      Send for the notary;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"Why call the notary?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      Why call the notary?\"\n      \"To make my testament;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      To make my testament;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"What to your mother leave?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What to your mother leave?\"\n      \"To her my palace goes;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      To her my palace goes;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"What to your brothers leave?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What to your brothers leave?\"\n      \"To them the coach and team;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      To them the coach and team;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"What to your sisters leave?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What to your sisters leave?\"\n      \"A dower to marry them;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      A dower to marry them;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"What to your servants leave?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What to your servants leave?\"\n      \"The road to go to Mass;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      The road to go to Mass;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"What leave you to your tomb?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What leave you to your tomb?\"\n      \"Masses seven score and ten;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      Masses seven score and ten;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\n      \"What leave you to your love?\n  My son beloved, blooming, and gentle bred,\n      What leave you to your love?\"\n      \"The tree to hang her on;\n  O lady mother, my heart is very sick:\n      The tree to hang her on;\n  Alas, alas, that I should have to die.\"\n\nAt first sight it would seem that the supreme dramatic element of the\nEnglish song--the circumstance that the mother does not know, but only\nsuspects, with increasing conviction, the presence of foul play--is\nweakened in the Lombard ballad by the refrain, \"Alas, alas, that I\nshould have to die.\" But a little more reflection will show that this\nis essentially of the nature of an _aside_. In many instances the\noffice of the burden in old ballads resembles that of the chorus in\na Greek play: it is designed to suggest to the audience a clue to the\nevents enacting which is not possessed by the _dramatis personae_--at\nleast not by all of them.\n\nIn the northern songs, Lord Ronald is a murdered child: a character\nin which he likewise figures in the Scotch lay of \"The Croodlin Doo.\"\nThis is the Swedish variant:\n\n  \"Where hast thou been so long, my little daughter?\"\n  \"I have been to B[oe]nne to see my brother;\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What gave they thee to eat, my little daughter?\"\n  \"Roast eel and pepper, my step-mother.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What didst thou do with the bones, my little daughter?\"\n  \"I threw them to the dogs, my step-mother.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What happened to the dogs, my little daughter?\"\n  \"Their bodies went to pieces, my step-mother.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What dost thou wish for thy father, my little daughter?\"\n  \"Good grain in the grange, my step-mother.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What dost thou wish for thy brother, my little daughter?\"\n  \"A big ship to sail in, my step-mother.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What dost thou wish for thy sister, my little daughter?\"\n  \"Coffers and caskets of gold, my step-mother.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What dost thou wish for thy step-mother, my little daughter?\"\n  \"The chains of hell, step-mother.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\n  \"What dost thou wish for thy nurse, my little daughter?\"\n  \"The same hell, my nurse.\n                                           Alas! how I suffer.\"\n\nA point connected with the diffusion of ballads is the extraordinarily\nwide adoption of certain conventional forms. One of these is the form\nof testamentary instructions by means of which the plot of a song is\nworked up to its climax. It reappears in the \"Cruel Brother\"--which, I\nsuppose, is altogether to be regarded as of the Roland type:\n\n  \"O what would ye leave to your father, dear?\"\n      _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._\n  \"The milk-white steed that brought me here,\"\n      _As the primrose spreads so sweetly._\n\n  \"What would ye give to your mother, dear?\"\n      _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._\n  \"My wedding shift which I do wear,\"\n      _As the primrose spreads so sweetly._\n\n  \"But she must wash it very clean,\"\n      _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_,\n  \"For my heart's blood sticks in every seam,\"\n      _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.\n\n  \"What would ye give to your sister Anne?\"\n      _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._\n  \"My gay gold ring and my feathered fan,\"\n      _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.\n\n  \"What would ye give to your brother John?\"\n      _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._\n  \"A rope and a gallows to hang him on!\"\n      _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.\n\n  \"What would ye give to your brother John's wife?\"\n      _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._\n  \"Grief and sorrow to end her life!\"\n      _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.\n\n  \"What would ye give to your own true lover?\"\n      _With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay._\n  \"My dying kiss, and my love for ever!\"\n      _As the primrose spreads so sweetly_.\n\nThe Portuguese ballad of \"Helena,\" which has not much in common with\n\"Lord Roland\"--except that it is a story of treachery--is brought into\nrelation with it by its bequests. Helena is a blameless wife whom a\ncruel mother-in-law first encourages to pay a visit to her parents,\nand then represents to her husband as having run away from him in\nhis absence. No sooner has he returned from his journey than he rides\nirate after his wife. When he arrives he is met by the news that a son\nis born to him, but unappeased he orders the young mother to rise\nfrom her bed and follow him. She obeys, saying that in a well-ordered\nmarriage it is the husband who commands; only, before she goes, she\nkisses her son and bids her mother tell him of these kisses when he\ngrows up. Then her husband takes her to a high mountain, where the\nagony of death comes upon her. The husband asks: \"To whom leavest thou\nthy jewels?\" She answers: \"To my sister; if thou wilt permit it.\"\n\"To whom leavest thou thy cross and the stones of thy necklace?\" \"The\ncross I leave to my mother; surely she will pray for me; she will\nnot care to have the stones, thou canst keep them--if to another thou\ngivest them, better than I, let her adorn herself with them.\" \"Thy\nsubstance, to whom leavest thou?\" \"To thee, my husband; God grant it\nmay profit thee.\" \"To whom leavest thou thy son, that he may be well\nbrought up?\" \"To thy mother, and may it please God that he should make\nhimself loved of her.\" \"Not to that dog,\" cries the husband, his eyes\nat last opened, \"she might well kill him. Leave him rather to thy\nmother, who will bring him up well; she will know how to wash him with\nher tears, and she will take the coif from her head to swaddle him.\"\n\nA strange, wild Roumanian song, translated by Mr C. F. Keary\n(_Nineteenth Century_, No. lxviii.), closes with a list of \"gifts\" of\nthe same character:\n\n  \"But mother, oh mother, say how\n  Shall I speak, and what name call him now?\"\n  \"My beloved, my step-son,\n  My heart's love, my cherished one.\"\n  \"And her, O my mother, what word\n  Shall I give her, what name?\"\n  \"My step-daughter, abhorred,\n  The whole world's shame.\"\n  \"Then, my mother, what shall I take him?\n  What gift shall I make him?\"\n  \"A handkerchief fine, little daughter,\n  Bread of white wheat for thy loved one to eat,\n  And a glass of wine, my daughter.\"\n  \"And what shall I take _her_, little mother,\n\n  What gift shall I make _her_?\"\n  \"A kerchief of thorns, little daughter;\n  A loaf of black bread for her whom he wed,\n  And a cup of poison, my daughter.\"\n\nBefore parting with \"Lord Ronald\" it should be noticed that the song\nclearly travelled in song-shape, not simply as a popular tradition;\nand that its different adaptators have been still more faithful to the\nshape than to the substance. It is not so easy to decide whether the\nvictim was originally a child or a lover, whether the north or the\nsouth has preserved the more correct version. Some crime of the middle\nages may have been the foundation of the ballad; on the other hand\nit is conceivable that it formed part of the enormous accumulation of\nliterary odds and ends brought to Europe from the east, by pilgrims\nand crusaders. Stories that, as we know them, seem distinctly\nmediaeval, such as Boccaccio's \"Falcon,\" have been traced to India.\nIf a collection were made of the ballads now sung by no more widely\nextended class than the three thousand ballad singers inscribed in the\nlast census of the North-Western Provinces and Oude, what a priceless\nboon would not be conferred upon the student of comparative folk-lore!\nWe cannot arrive at a certainty even in regard to the minor question\nof whether Lord Ronald made his appearance first in England or in\nItaly. The English and Italian songs bear a closer affinity to\neach other than is possessed by either towards the Swedish variant.\nSupposing the one to be directly derived from the other--a supposition\nwhich in this case does not seem improbable--the Italian was most\nlikely the original. There was a steady migration into England of\nItalian literature, literate and probably also illiterate, from the\nthirteenth to the sixteenth century. The English ballad-singers may\nhave been as much on the look-out for a new, orally communicated song\nfrom foreign parts, as Chaucer was for a poem of Petrarch's or a tale\nof Boccaccio's.\n\n\nII.--THE THEFT OF A SHROUD.\n\nThe ballad with which we have now to deal has had probably as wide a\ncurrency as that of \"Lord Ronald.\" The student of folk-lore recognises\nat once, in its evident fitness for local adaptation, its simple yet\nterrifying motive, and the logical march of its events, the elements\nthat give a popular song a free pass among the peoples.\n\nM. Allegre took down from word of mouth and communicated to the late\nDamase Arbaud a Provencal version, which runs as follows:\n\n  His scarlet cape the Prior donned,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  His scarlet cape the Prior donned,\n      And all the souls in Paradise\n      With joy and triumph fill the skies.\n\n  His sable cape the Prior donned,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  His sable cape the Prior donned,\n      And all the spirits of the dead\n      Fast tears within the graveyard shed.\n\n  Now, Ringer, to the belfry speed,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Now, Ringer, to the belfry speed,\n      Ring loud, to-night thy ringing tolls\n      An office for the dead men's souls.\n\n  Ring loud the bell of good St John:\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Ring loud the bell of good St John:\n      Pray all, for the poor dead; aye pray,\n      Kind folks, for spirits passed away.\n\n  Soon as the midnight hour strikes,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Soon as the midnight hour strikes,\n      The pale moon sheds around her light,\n      And all the graveyard waxeth white.\n\n  What seest thou, Ringer, in the close?\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  What seest thou, Ringer, in the close?\n      \"I see the dead men wake and sit\n      Each one by his deserted pit.\"\n\n  Full thousands seven and hundreds five,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Full thousands seven and hundreds five,\n      Each on his grave's edge, yawning wide,\n      His dead man's wrappings lays aside.\n\n  Then leave they their white winding-sheets,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Then leave they their white winding-sheets,\n      And walk, accomplishing their doom,\n      In sad procession from the tomb.\n\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five,\n      And each one falls upon his knees\n      Soon as the holy cross he sees.\n\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five\n      Arrest their footsteps, weeping sore\n      When they have reached their children's door.\n\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five\n      Turn them aside and, listening, stay\n      Whene'er they hear some kind soul pray.\n\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Full one thousand and hundreds five,\n      Who stand apart and groan bereft,\n      Seeing for them no friends are left.\n\n  But soon as ever the white cock stirs,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  But soon as ever the white cock stirs,\n      They take again their cerements white,\n      And in their hands a torch alight.\n\n  But soon as ever the red cock crows,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  But soon as ever the red cock crows,\n      All sing the Holy Passion song,\n      And in procession march along.\n\n  But soon as the gilded cock doth shine,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  But soon as the gilded cock doth shine,\n      Their hands and their two arms they cross,\n      And each descends into his foss.\n\n  'Tis now the dead men's second night,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Tis now the dead men's second night:\n      Peter, go up to ring; nor dread\n      If thou shouldst chance to see the dead.\n\n  \"The dead, the dead, they fright me not,\"\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  \"The dead, the dead, they fright me not,\n      --Yet prayers are due for the dead, I ween,\n      And due respect should they be seen.\"\n\n  When next the midnight hour strikes,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  When next the midnight hour strikes,\n      The graves gape wide and ghastly show\n      The dead who issue from below.\n\n  Three diverse ways they pass along,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Three diverse ways they pass along,\n      Nought seen but wan white skeletons\n      Weeping, nought heard but sighs and moans.\n\n  Down from the belfry Peter came,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Down from the belfry Peter came,\n      While still the bell of good St John\n      Gave forth its sound: barin, baron.\n\n  He carried off a dead man's shroud,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  He carried off a dead man's shroud;\n      At once it seemed no longer night,\n      The holy close was all alight.\n\n  The holy Cross that midmost stands,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  The holy Cross that midmost stands\n      Grew red as though with blood 'twas dyed,\n      And all the altars loudly sighed.\n\n  Now, when the dead regained the close,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Now, when the dead regained the close\n      --The Holy Passion sung again--\n      They passed along in solemn train.\n\n  Then he who found his cerements gone,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Then he who found his cerements gone,\n      From out the graveyard gazed and signed\n      His winding-sheet should be resigned.\n\n  But Peter every entrance closed,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  But Peter every entrance closed\n      With locks and bolts, approach defies,\n      Then looks at him--but keeps the prize!\n\n  He with his arm, and with his hand,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  He with his arm, and with his hand,\n      Made signs in vain, two times or three,\n      And then the belfry entered he.\n\n  A noise is mounting up the stair,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  A noise is mounting up the stair,\n      The bolts are shattered, and the door\n      Is burst and dashed upon the floor.\n\n  The Ringer trembled with dismay,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  The Ringer trembled with dismay,\n      And still the bell of good St John\n      For ever swung: barin, baron.\n\n  At the first stroke of Angelus,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  At the first stroke of Angelus\n      The skeleton broke all his bones,\n      Falling to earth upon the stones.\n\n  Peter upon his bed was laid,\n      Ding dong, dong ding dong!\n  Peter upon his bed was laid,\n      Confessed his sin, repenting sore,\n      Lingered three days, then lived no more.\n\nIt will be seen that, in this ballad, which is locally called \"Lou\nJour des Mouerts,\" the officiating priest assumes red vestments in\nthe morning, and changes them in the course of the day for black.\nThe vestments appropriate to the evening of All Saints' Day are still\nblack (it being the Vigil of All Souls'), but in the morning the\ncolour worn is white or gold. An explanation, however, is at hand. The\nfeast of All Saints had its beginning in the dedication of the Roman\nPantheon by Boniface IV., in the year 607, to _S. Maria ad Martyres_,\nand red ornaments were naturally chosen for a day set apart especially\nto the commemoration of martyrdom. These were only discarded when the\nfeast came to have a more general character, and there is evidence\nof their retention here and there in French churches till a date as\nadvanced as the fifteenth century. Thus, we gain incidentally some\nnotion of the age of the song.\n\nNot long after giving a first reading to the Provencal ballad of the\nShroud-theft, I became convinced of its substantial identity with a\npoem whose author holds quite another rank to that of the nameless\nfolk-poet. Goethe's \"Todten Tanz\" tends less to edification than \"Lou\njour des Mouerts;\" nor has it, I venture to think, an equal power.\nWe miss the pathetic picture of the companies of sad ghosts; these\nkneeling before the wayside crosses; these lingering by their\nchildren's thresholds; these listening to the prayers of the pious\non their behalf; these others weeping, _en vesent que n'ant plus\nd'amics_. But the divergence of treatment cannot hide the fact that\nthe two ballads are made out of one tale.\n\n  THE DANCE OF DEATH.\n\n  The watcher looks down in the dead of the night\n    On graves in trim order gleaming;\n  The moon steeps the world all around in her light--\n    'Tis clear as if noon were beaming.\n  One grave gaped apart, then another began;\n  Here forth steps a woman, and there steps a man,\n    White winding-sheets trailing behind them.\n\n  On sport they determine, nor pause they for long,\n    All feel for the measure advancing;\n  The rich and the poor, the old and the young;\n    But winding-sheets hinder the dancing.\n  Since sense of decorum no longer impedes,\n  They hasten to shake themselves free of their weeds,\n    And tombstones are quickly beshrouded.\n\n  Then legs kick about and are lifted in air,\n    Strange gesture and antic repeating;\n  The bones crack and rattle, and crash here and there,\n    As if to keep time they were beating.\n  The sight fills the watcher with mirth 'stead of fear,\n  And the sly one, the Tempter, speaks low in his ear:\n    \"Now go and a winding-sheet plunder!\"\n\n  The hint he soon followed, the deed it was done,\n    Then behind the church-door he sought shelter;\n  The moon in her splendour unceasingly shone,\n    And still dance the dead helter-skelter.\n  At last, one by one, they all cease from the play,\n  And, wrapt in the winding-sheets, hasten away,\n    Beneath the turf silently sinking.\n\n  One only still staggers and stumbles along,\n    The grave edges groping and feeling;\n  'Tis no brother ghost who has done him the wrong;\n    Now his scent shows the place of concealing.\n  The church-door he shakes, but his strength is represt;\n  'Tis well for the watcher the portals are blest\n    By crosses resplendent protected.\n\n  His shirt he must have, upon this he is bent,\n    No time has he now for reflection;\n  Each sculpture of Gothic some holding has lent,\n    He scales and he climbs each projection.\n  Dread vengeance o'ertakes him, 'tis up with the spy!\n  From arch unto arch draws the skeleton nigh,\n    Like lengthy-legged horrible spider.\n\n  The watcher turns pale, and he trembles full sore,\n    The shroud to return he beseeches;\n  But a claw (it is done, he is living no more),\n    A claw to the shroud barely reaches.\n  The moonlight grows faint; it strikes one by the clock;\n  A thunderclap burst with a terrible shock;\n    To earth falls the skeleton shattered.\n\nIt needed but small penetration to guess that Goethe had neither seen\nnor heard of the Provencal song. It seemed, therefore, certain that\na version of the Shroud-theft must exist in Germany, or near it--an\ninference I found to be correct on consulting that excellent work,\nGoethe's _Gedichte erlaeutert von Heinrich Viehoff_ (Stuttgart, 1870).\nSo far as the title and the incident of the dancing are concerned,\nGoethe apparently had recourse to a popular story given in Appel's\n_Book of Spectres_, where it is related how, when the guards of the\ntower looked out at midnight, they saw Master Willibert rise from his\ngrave in the moonshine, seat himself on a high tombstone, and begin to\nperform on his pocket pipe. Then several other tombs opened, and the\ndead came forth and danced cheerily over the mounds of the graves. The\nwhite shrouds fluttered round their dried-up limbs, and their bones\nclattered and shook till the clock struck one, when each returned\ninto his narrow house, and the piper put his pipe under his arm\nand followed their example. The part of the ballad which has to do\ndirectly with the Shroud-theft is based upon oral traditions collected\nby the poet during his sojourn at Teplitz, in Bohemia, in the summer\nof 1813. Viehoff has ascertained that there are also traces of the\nlegend in Silesia, Moravia, and Tyrol. In these countries the story\nwould seem to be oftenest told in prose; but Viehoff prints a rhymed\nrendering of the variant localised in Tyrol, where the events are\nsupposed to have occurred at the village of Burgeis:\n\n  The twelve night strokes have ceased to sound,\n  The watchman of Burgeis looks around,\n    The country all in moonlight sleeps;\n  Standing the belfry tower beneath\n  The tombstones, with their wreaths of death,\n    The wan moon's ghastly pallor steeps.\n\n  \"Does the young mother in child-birth dead\n  Rise in her shroud from her lonely bed,\n    For the sake of the child she has left behind?\n  To mock them (they say) makes the dead ones grieve,\n  Let's see if I cannot her work relieve,\n    Or she no end to her toil may find.\"\n\n  So spake he, when something, with movement slow,\n  Stirs in the deep-dug grave below,\n    And in its trailing shroud comes out;\n  And the little garments that infants have\n  It hangs and stretches on gate and grave,\n    On rail and trellis, the yard about.\n\n  The rest of the buried in sleep repose,\n  That nothing of waking or trouble knows,\n    For the woman the sleep of the grave is killed;\n  Her leaden sleep, each midnight hour,\n  Flees, and her limbs regain their power,\n    And she hastes as to tend her new-born child.\n\n  All with rash spite the watchman views,\n  And with cruel laughter the form pursues,\n    As he leans from the belfrey's narrow height,\n  And in sinful scorn on the tower rails\n  Linen and sheets and bands he trails,\n    Mocking her acts in the moon's wan light.\n\n  Lo, with swift steps, foreboding doom,\n  From the churchyard's edge o'er grave and tomb\n    The ghost to the tower wends its ways;\n  And climbs and glides, ne'er fearing fall,\n  Up by the ledges, the lofty wall,\n    Fixing the sinner with fearful gaze.\n\n  The watcher grows pale, and with hasty hand,\n  Tears from the tower the shrouds and bands;\n    Vainly! That threatening grin draws nigh!\n  With a trembling hand he tolls the hour,\n  And the skeleton down from the belfry-tower,\n    Shattered and crumbling, falls from high.\n\nThis story overlaps the great cycle of popular belief which treats\nof the help given by a dead mother to her bereaved child. They say\nin Germany, when the sheets are ruffled in the bed of a motherless\ninfant, that the mother has lain beside it and suckled it. Kindred\nsuperstitions stretch through the world. The sin of the Burgeis\nwatchman is that of heartless malice, but it stops short of actual\nrobbery, which is perhaps the reason why he escapes with his life,\nhaving the presence of mind to toll forth the first hour of day,\nwhen--\n\n  Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,\n  The extravagant and erring spirit hies\n  To his confine.\n\nThe prose legends which bear upon one or another point in the\nShroud-theft, are both numerous and important. Joseph Mace, a\ncabin-boy of Saint Cast, in Upper Brittany, related the following to\nthe able collector of Breton folk-lore, M. Paul Sebillot. There was a\nyoung man who went to see a young girl; his parents begged him not to\ngo again to her, but he replied: \"Mind your own business and leave me\nto mind mine.\" One evening he invited two or three of his comrades to\naccompany him, and as they passed by a stile they saw a woman standing\nthere, dressed all in white. \"I'll take off her coif,\" said the youth.\n\"No,\" said the others, \"let her alone.\" But he went straight up to\nher and carried off her coif--there only remained the little skullcap\nunderneath, but he did not see her face. He went with the others to\nhis sweetheart, and showed her the coif. \"Ah!\" said he, \"as I came\nhere I met a woman all in white, and I carried off her coif.\" \"Give\nme the coif,\" replied his sweetheart; \"I will put it away in my\nwardrobe.\" Next evening he started again to see the girl, and on\nreaching the stile he saw a woman in white like the one of the day\nbefore, but this one had no head. \"Dear me,\" he said to himself, \"it\nis the same as yesterday; still I did not think I had pulled off her\nhead.\" When he went in to his sweetheart, she said, \"I wore to-day\nthe coif you gave me; you can't think how nice I look in it!\" \"Give it\nback to me, I beg of you,\" said the young man. She gave it back, and\nwhen he got home he told his mother the whole story. \"Ah, my poor\nlad,\" she said, \"you have kept sorry company. I told you some ill\nwould befall you.\" He went to bed, but in the night his mother heard\nsighs coming from the bed of her son. She woke her good man and said,\n\"Listen; one would say someone was moaning.\" She went to her son's\nbed and found him bathed in sweat. \"What is the matter with you?\"\nshe asked. \"Ah, my mother, I had a weight of more than three hundred\npounds on my body; it stifled me, I could bear it no longer.\" Next day\nthe youth went to confession, and he told all to the curate. \"My boy,\"\nsaid the priest, \"the person you saw was a woman who came from the\ngrave to do penance; it was your dead sister.\" \"What can I do?\" asked\nthe young man. \"You must go and take her back her coif, and set it\non the neck on the side to which it leans.\" \"Ah! sir, I should never\ndare, I should die of fright!\" Still he went that evening to the\nstile, where he saw the woman who was dressed in white and had no\nhead; he set the coif just on the side the neck leant to; all at once\na head showed itself inside it, and a voice said, \"Ah! my brother, you\nhindered me from doing penance; to-morrow you will come and help me\nto finish it.\" The young man went back to bed, but next day he did not\nget up when the others did, and when they went to his bed he was dead.\n\nAt Saint Suliac a young man saw three young girls kneeling in the\ncemetery. He took the cap off one of them, saying that he would not\ngive it back till she came to embrace him. Next day, instead of the\ncap he found a death's head. At midnight he carried it back, holding\nin his arms a new-born infant. The death's head became once more a\ncap, the woman disappeared, and the young man, thanks to the child,\nsuffered no harm.\n\nIn a third Breton legend a child commits the theft, but without any\nconsciousness of wrong-doing. A little girl picked up a small bone in\na graveyard and took it away to amuse herself with it. In the evening,\nwhen she returned home, she heard a voice saying:\n\n  Give me back my bone!\n  Give me back my bone!\n\n\"What's that?\" asked the mother.\n\n\"Perhaps it is because of a bone I picked up in the cemetery.\"\n\n\"Well, it must be given back.\"\n\nThe little girl opened the door and threw the bone into the court, but\nthe voice went on saying:\n\n  Give me back my bone!\n  Give me back my bone!\n\n\"Maybe it is the bone of a dead man; take the candle, go into the\ncourt and give it back to him.\"\n\nIt is most unfortunate to possess a human bone, even by accident.\nIt establishes unholy relations between the possessor and the spirit\nworld which render him defenceless against spells and enchantments. A\nlate chaplain to the forces in Mauritius told me that the witches,\nor rather wizards, who have it all their own way in that island,\ncontrived, after a course of preparatory persecution, to\nsurreptitiously introduce into his house the little finger of a child.\nHe could not think what to do with it: at last he consulted a friend,\na Catholic priest, who advised him to burn it, which was done. We all\nknow \"the finger of birth-strangled babe\" in the witches' cauldron in\n_Macbeth_; but it is somewhat surprising to find a similar \"charm for\npowerful trouble\" in current use in a British colony.\n\nA Corsican legend, reported by M. Frederic Ortoli, should have a place\nhere. On the Day of the Dead a certain man had to go to Sartena to\nsell chestnuts. Overnight he filled his panniers, so as to be ready to\nstart with the first gleam of daylight. The only thing left for him to\ndo was to go and get his horse, which was out at pasture not far from\nthe village. So he went to bed, but hardly had he lain down when a\nfearful storm broke over the house. Cries and curses echoed all round:\n\"Cursed be thou! cursed be thy wife! cursed be thy children!\" The\nwretched man grew cold with fear; he got quite close to his wife, who\nasked: \"Did you put the water outside the window?\" \"Sangu di Cristu!\"\ncried the man, \"I forgot!\" He rose at once to put vessels filled with\nwater on the balcony. The dead--whose vigil it was--were in fact come,\nand finding no water either to drink or to wash and purify their sins\nin, they had made a frightful noise and hurled maledictions against\nhim who had forgotten their wants. The poor man went to bed again, but\nthe storm continued, though the cursing and blaspheming had ceased.\n\nTowards three in the morning the man wished to get up, \"Stay,\" said\nhis wife, \"do not go.\"\n\n\"No, go I must.\"\n\n\"The weather is so bad, the wind so high; some mischief will come to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Never mind; keep me no more.\"\n\nAnd so saying the husband went out to find his horse. He had barely\nreached the crossway when by the path from Giufari, he saw, marching\ntowards him, the _squadra d'Arrozza_--the Dead Battalion. Each dead\nman held a taper, and chanted the _Miserere_.\n\nThe poor peasant was as if petrified; his blood stood still in his\nveins, and he could not utter a word. Meanwhile the troop surrounded\nhim, and he who was at its head offered him the taper he was carrying.\n\"Take hold!\" he said, and the poor wretch took it.\n\nThen the most dreadful groans and cries were heard. \"Woe! woe! woe! Be\naccursed, be accursed, be accursed.\"\n\nThe villager soon came to himself, but oh! horrid sight! in his hand\nwas the arm of a little child. It was that, and not a taper, that the\ndead had given him. He tried to get rid of it, but every effort proved\nfruitless. In despair, he went to the priest, and told him all about\nit. \"Men should never take what spirits offer them,\" said the priest,\n\"it is always a snare they set for us; but now that the mischief is\ndone, let us see how best we can repair it.\"\n\n\"What must I do?\"\n\n\"For three successive nights the Dead Battalion will come under your\nwindows at the same hour as when you met it: some will cry, some\nwill sob, others will curse you, and ask persistently for the little\nchild's arm; the bells of all the churches will set to tolling the\nfuneral knell, but have no fear. At first you must not throw them the\narm--only on the third day may you get rid of it, and this is how.\nGet ready a lot of hot ashes; then when the dead come and begin to cry\nand groan, throw them a part. That will make them furious; they will\nwish to attack your house--you will let them in, but when all the\nspectres are inside, suddenly throw at them what is left of the hot\nashes with the child's arm along with it. The dead will take it away,\nand you will be saved.\"\n\nEverything happened just as the priest said; for three nights cries,\ngroans, and imprecations surrounded the man's house, while the bells\ntolled the death-knell. It was only by throwing hot ashes on the\nghosts that he got rid of the child's arm. Not long after, he died.\n\"Woe be to him who forgets to give drink to the dead.\"\n\nThe Dead Battalion, or Confraternity of Ghosts, walk abroad dressed as\npenitents, with hoods over their heads. The solitary night traveller\nsees them from time to time, defiling down the mountain gorges; they\ninvariably try to make him accept some object, not to be recognised\nin the dark--but beware, lest you accept! If some important person\nis about to die, they come out to receive his soul into their dread\nbrotherhood.\n\nGhost stories are common in Corsica. What wilder tale could be desired\nthan that of the girl, betrayed by her lover to wed a richer bride,\nwho returns thrice, and lies down between man and wife--twice she\nvanishes at cock-crow, the third time she clasps her betrayer in her\nchilly arms, saying, \"Thou art mine, O beloved! mine thou wilt be\nforever, we part no more.\" While she speaks he breathes his last\nbreath.\n\nThe dead, when assembled in numbers, and when not employed in\nrehearsing the business or calling of their former lives, are usually\nengaged either in dancing or in going through some sort of religious\nexercise. On this point there is a conformity of evidence. A spectre's\nmass is a very common superstition. On All Soul's Eve an old woman\nwent to pray in the now ruined church of St Martin, at Bonn. Priests\nwere performing the service, and there was a large congregation, but\nby and by the old woman became convinced that she was the only living\nmortal in the church. She wished to get away, but she could not; just\nas Mass was ending, however, her deceased husband whispered to her\nthat now was the time to fly for her life. She ran to the door, but\nshe stopped for one moment at the spot in the aisle where two of her\nchildren were buried, just to say, \"Peace be unto them.\" The door\nswung open and closed after her: a bit of her cloak was shut in, so\nthat she had to leave it behind. Soon after she sickened and died; the\nneighbours said it must be because a piece of her clothes had remained\nin the possession of the dead.\n\nThe dance of the dead sometimes takes the form not of an amusement but\nof a doom. One of the most curious instances of this is embodied in a\nRhineland legend, which has the advantage of giving names, dates, and\nfull particulars. In the 14th century, Freiherr von Metternich placed\nhis daughter Ida in a convent on the island of Oberwoerth, in order\nto separate her from her lover, one Gerbert, to whom she was secretly\nbetrothed. A year later the maiden lay sick in the nunnery, attended\nby an aged lay sister. \"Alas!\" she said, \"I die unwed though a\nbetrothed wife.\" \"Heaven forefend!\" cried her companion, \"then you\nwould be doomed to dance the death-dance.\" The old sister went on to\nexplain that betrothed maidens who die without having either married\nor taken religious vows, are condemned to dance on a grassless spot\nin the middle of the island, there being but one chance of escape--the\ncoming of a lover, no matter whether the original betrothed or\nanother, with whom the whole company dances round and round till\nhe dies; then the youngest of the ghosts makes him her own, and may\nhenceforth rest in her grave. The old nun's gossip does not delay\n(possibly it hastens) the hapless Ida's departure, and Gerbert,\nwho hears of her illness on the shores of the Boden See, arrives at\nCoblentz only to have tidings of her death. He rows over to Oberwoerth:\nit is midnight in midwinter. Under the moonlight dance the unwed\nbrides, veiled and in flowing robes; Gerbert thinks he sees Ida\namongst them. He joins in the dance; fast and furious it becomes, to\nthe sound of a wild, unearthly music. At last the clock strikes, and\nthe ghosts vanish--only one, as it goes, seems to stoop and kiss the\nyouth, who sinks to the ground. There the gardener finds him on\nthe morrow, and in spite of all the care bestowed upon him by the\nsisterhood he dies before sundown.\n\nIn China they are more practical. In the natural course of things the\nspirit of an engaged girl would certainly haunt her lover, but there\nis a way to prevent it, and that way he takes. He must go to the house\nwhere she died, step over the coffin containing her body, and carry\nhome a pair of her shoes. Then he is safe.\n\nA story may be added which comes from a Dutch source. The gravedigger\nhappened to have a fever on All Saints' Day. \"Is it not unlucky?\" he\nsaid to a friend who came to see him, \"I am ill, and must go to-night\nin the cold and snow to dig a grave.\" \"Oh, I'll do that for you,\" said\nthe gossip. \"That's a little service.\" So it was agreed. The gossip\ntook a spade and a pick-axe, and cheered himself with a glass at the\nalehouse; then, by half-past eleven, the work was done. As he\nwas going away from the churchyard he saw a procession of white\nfriars--they went round the close, each with a taper in his hand. When\nthey passed the gossip, they threw down the tapers, and the last flung\nhim a big ball of wax with two wicks. The gossip laughed quite loudly:\nall this wax would sell for a pretty sum! He picked up the tapers and\nhid them under his bed. Next day was All Souls'. The gossip went to\nbed betimes, but he could not get to sleep, and as twelve struck he\nheard three knocks. He jumped up and opened the door--there stood all\nthe white monks, only they had no tapers! The gossip fell back on his\nbed from fright, and the monks marched into the room and stood all\nround him. Then their white robes dropped off, and, only to think of\nit! they were all skeletons! But no skeleton was complete; one lacked\nan arm, another a leg, another a backbone, and one had no head.\nSomehow the cloth in which the gossip had wrapped the wax came out\nfrom under the bed and fell open; instead of tapers it was full of\nbones. The skeletons now called out for their missing members: \"Give\nme my rib,\" \"Give me my backbone,\" and so on. The gossip gave back all\nthe pieces, and put the skull on the right shoulders--it was what he\nhad mistaken for a ball of wax. The moment the owner of the head had\ngot it back he snatched a violin which was hanging against the wall,\nand told the gossip to begin to play forthwith, he himself extending\nhis arms in the right position to conduct the music. All the skeletons\ndanced, making a fearful clatter, and the gossip dared not leave off\nfiddling till the morning came and the monks put on their clothes and\nwent away. The gossip and his wife did not say one word of what had\nhappened till their last hour, when they thought it wisest to tell\ntheir confessor.\n\nMr Benjamin Thorpe saw a link between the above legend, of which he\ngave a translation in his \"Northern Mythology,\" and the Netherlandish\nproverb, \"Let no one take a bone from the churchyard: the dead\nwill torment him till he return it.\" Its general analogy with our\nShroud-theft does not admit of doubt, though the proceedings of the\nexpropriator of wax lights are more easily accounted for than\nare those of the Shroud-thief. Peter of Provence either stole the\nwinding-sheet out of sheer mischief, or he took it to enable him\nto see sights not lawfully visible to mortal eyes. In any case a\nwell-worn shroud could scarcely enrich the thief, while the wax used\nfor ecclesiastical candles was, and is still, a distinctly marketable\ncommodity. A stranger who goes into a church at Florence in the\ndusk of the evening, when a funeral ceremony is in the course of\nperformance, is surprised to see men and boys dodging the footsteps of\nthe brethren of the _Misericordia_, and stooping at every turn to the\npavement; if he asks what is the object of their peculiar antics, he\nwill hear that it is to collect\n\n  The droppings of the wax to sell again.\n\nThe industry is time-honoured in Italy. At Naples in the last century,\nthe wax-men flourished exceedingly by reason of a usage described by\nHenry Swinburne. Candidates for holy orders who had not money enough\nto pay the fees, were in the habit of letting themselves out to attend\nfunerals, so that they might be able to lay by the sum needful. But as\nthey were often indisposed to fulfil the duties thus undertaken, they\ndressed up the city vagrants in their clothes and sent them to pray\nand sing instead of them. These latter made their account out of the\ntransaction by having a friend near, who held a paper bag, into which\nthey made the tapers waste plenteously. Other devices for improving\nthe trade were common at that date in the Neapolitan kingdom. Once,\nwhen an archbishop was to be buried, and four hundred genuine friars\nwere in attendance, suddenly a mad bull was let loose amongst them,\nwhereupon they dropped their wax lights, and the thieves, who had laid\nthe plot, picked them up. At another great funeral, each assistant\nwas respectfully asked for his taper by an individual dressed like\na sacristan; the tapers were then extinguished and quietly carried\naway--only afterwards it was discovered that the supposed sacristans\nbelonged to a gang of thieves. The Shroud-theft is a product of the\npeculiar fascination exercised by the human skeleton upon the mediaeval\nfancy. The part played by the skeleton in the early art and early\nfiction of the Christian aera is one of large importance; the horrible,\nthe grotesque, the pathetic, the humorous--all are grouped round the\nbare remnants of humanity. The skeleton, figuring as Death, still\nlooks at you from the _facades_ of the village churches in the north\nof Italy and the Trentino--sometimes alone, sometimes with other stray\nmembers of the _Danse Macabre_; carrying generally an inscription to\nthis purport:\n\n  Giunge la morte plena de egualeza,\n  Sole ve voglio e non vostra richeza.\n  Digna mi son de portar corona,\n  E che signoresi ogni persona.\n\nThe _Danse Macabre_ itself is a subject which is well nigh\nexhaustless. The secret of its immense popularity can be read in the\nlines just quoted: it proclaimed equality. \"Nous mourrons tous,\" said\nthe French preacher--then, catching the eye of the king, he politely\nsubstituted \"_presque_ tous.\" Now there is no \"presque\" in the Dance\nof Death. Whether painted by Holbein's brush, or by that of any humble\nartist of the Italian valleys, the moral is the same: grand lady and\nmilkmaid, monarch and herdsman, all have to go. Who shall fathom the\ngrim comfort there was in this vivid, this highly intelligible showing\nforth of the indisputable fact? It was a foretaste of the declaration\nof the rights of man. Professor Pellegrini, who has added an\ninstructive monograph to the literature of the _Danse Macabre_,\nmentions that on the way to the cemetery of Galliate a wall bears the\nguiding inscription: \"Via al vero comunismo!\"\n\nThe old custom of way-side ossuaries contributed no doubt towards\nkeeping strongly before the people the symbol and image of the great\nKing. I have often reflected on the effect, certainly if unconsciously\nfelt, of the constant and unveiled presence of the dead. I remember\nonce passing one of the still standing chapels through the gratings\nof which may be seen neatly ranged rows of human bones, as I was\ndescending late one night a mountain in Lombardy. The moon fell\nthrough the bars upon the village ancestors; one old man went by along\nthe narrow way, and said gravely as he went the two words: \"E\ntardi!\" It was a scene which always comes back to me when I study the\nliterature of the skeleton.\n\n\n\n\nSONGS FOR THE RITE OF MAY.\n\n\nOne of the first of living painters has pointed to the old English\ncustom of carrying about flowers on May Day as a sign that, in the\nMiddle Ages, artistic sensibility and a pleasure in natural beauty\nwere not dead among the common people of England. Nothing can be truer\nthan this way of judging the observance of the Rite of May. Whatever\nmight be the foolishness that it led to here and there, its origin lay\nalways in pure satisfaction at the returned glory of the earth; in the\nwish to establish a link that could be seen and felt--if only that\nof holding a green bough or of wearing a daffodil crown--between\nthe children of men and the new and beautiful growth of nature. The\nsentiment is the same everywhere, but the manner of its expression\nvaries. In warmer lands it finds a vent long before the coming of\nMay. March, in fact, rather than May, seems to have been chosen as the\ntypical spring month in ancient Greece and Rome; and when we see the\nalmond-trees blooming down towards Ponte Molle in the earliest week in\nFebruary, even March strikes us as a little late for the beginning\nof the spring festival. A few icicles next morning on the Trevi, act,\nhowever, as a corrective to our ideas. In a famous passage Ovid tells\nthe reason why the Romans kept holiday on the first of March: \"The\nice being broken up, winter at last yields, and the snow melts away,\nconquered by the sun's gentle warmth; the leaves come back to the\ntrees that were stripped by the cold, the sap-filled bud swells with\nthe tender twig, and the fertile grass, that long lay unseen, finds\nhidden passages and uplifts itself in the air. Now is the field\nfruitful, now is the time of the birth of cattle, now the bird\nprepares its house and home in the bough.\" (_Fastorum_, lib. iii.)\n\nMarch day is still kept in Greece by bands of youngsters who go\nfrom house to house in the hopes of getting little gifts of fruit or\ncheese. They take with them a wooden swallow which they spin round to\nthe song:\n\n  The swallow speeds her flight\n      O'er the sea-foam white,\n  And then a-singing she doth slake her wing.\n      \"March, March, my delight,\n      And February wan and wet,\n      For all thy snow and rain thou yet\n  Hast a perfume of the spring.\"\n\nOr perhaps to the following variant, given by Mr Lewis Sergeant in\n_New Greece_:\n\n  She is here, she is here,\n  The swallow that brings us the beautiful year;\n  Open wide the door,\n  We are children again, we are old no more.\n\nThese little swallow-songs are worth the attention of the Folk-Lore\nstudent, since they are of a greater antiquity than can be proved on\nwritten evidence in the case, so far as I know, of any other folk-song\nstill current. More than two thousand years ago they existed in the\nform quoted from Theognis by Athenaeus as \"an excellent song sung by\nthe children of Rhodes.\"\n\n  The swallow comes! She comes, she brings\n  Glad days and hours upon her wings.\n          See on her back\n          Her plumes are black,\n          But all below\n          As white as snow.\n  Then from your well-stored house with haste,\n  Bring sweet cakes of dainty taste,\n  Bring a flagon full of wine,\n  Wheaten meal bring, white and fine;\n  And a platter load with cheese,\n  Eggs and porridge add--for these\n  Will the swallow not decline.\n  Now shall we go, or gifts receive!\n  Give, or ne'er your house we leave,\n  Till we the door or lintel break,\n  Or your little wife we take;\n  She so light, small toil will make.\n          But whate'er ye bring us forth,\n          Let the gift be one of worth.\n  Ope, ope your door, to greet the swallow then,\n  For we are only boys, not bearded men.\n\nIn AEgina the children's prattle runs: \"March is come, sing, ye hills\nand ye flowers and little birds! Say, say, little swallow, where hast\nthou passed? where hast thou halted?\" And in Corfu: \"Little swallow,\nmy joyous one, joyous my swallow; thou that comest from the desert,\nwhat good things bringest thou? Health, joy, and red eggs.\" Yet\nanother version of the swallow song deals in scant compliments to the\nmonth of March, which was welcomed so gladly at its first coming:\n\n  From the Black Sea the swallow comes,\n                          She o'er the waves has sped,\n  And she has built herself a nest\n                          And resting there she said:\n  \"Thou February cold and wet,\n                          And snowy March and drear,\n  Soft April heralds its approach,\n                          And soon it will be here.\n  The little birds begin to sing,\n                          Trees don their green array,\n  Hens in the yard begin to cluck,\n                          And store of eggs to lay.\n  The herds their winter shelter leave\n                          For mountain-side and top;\n  The goats begin to sport and skip,\n                          And early buds to crop;\n  Beasts, birds, and men all give themselves\n                          To joy and merry heart,\n  And ice and snow and northern winds\n                          Are melted and depart.\n  Foul February, snowy March,\n                          Fair April will not tarry.\n  Hence, February! March, begone!\n                          Away the winter carry!\"\n\nWhen they leave off singing, the children cry \"Pritz! Pritz!\"\nimitating the sound of the rapid flight of a bird. Longfellow\ntranslated a curious Stork-carol sung in spring-time by the Hungarian\nboys on the islands of the Danube:\n\n  Stork! Stork! Poor Stork!\n  Why is thy foot so bloody?\n  A Turkish boy hath torn it,\n  Hungarian boy will heal it,\n  With fiddle, fife, and drum.\n\nBefore the sun was up on May-day morning, the people of Edinburgh\nassembled at Arthur's Seat to \"meet the dew.\" May-dew was thought to\npossess all kinds of virtues. English girls went into the fields at\ndawn to wash their faces in it, in order to procure a good complexion.\nPepys speaks of his wife going to Woolwich for a little change of air,\nand to gather the May-dew. In Croatia, the women get from the woods\nflowers and grasses which they throw into water taken from under a\nmill-wheel, and next morning they bathe in the water, imagining that\nthus the new strength of Nature enters into them. There is said to\nalso exist a singular rain-custom in Croatia. When a drought threatens\nto injure the crops, a young girl, generally a gipsy, dresses herself\nentirely in flowers and grasses, in which primitive raiment she is\nconducted through the village by her companions, who sing to the skies\nfor mercy. In Greece, too, there are many songs and ceremonies in\nconnection with a desire for the rain, which never comes during the\nwhole pitiless summer.\n\nIf there be a part of the world where spring plays the laggard, it is\ncertainly the upper valley of the Inn. Nevertheless the children\nof the Engadine trudge forth bravely over the snow, shaking their\ncow-bells and singing lustily:\n\n  Chalanda Mars, chaland'Avrigl\n  Lasche las vachias our d'nuilg.\n\nWere the cows to leave their stables as is here enjoined, they would\nnot find a blade of grass to eat--but that does not matter. The\nchildren have probably sung that song ever since their forefathers\ncame up to the mountains; came up in all likelihood from sunny\nTuscany. The Engadine lads, after doing justice to their March-day\nfare, set out for the boundaries of their commune, where they are met\nby another band of boys, with whom they contend in various trials\nof strength, which sometimes end in hand-to-hand fights. This may be\nanalogous to the old English usage of beating the younger generation\nonce a year at the village boundaries in order to impress on them a\nlasting idea of local geography. By the Lake of Poschiavo it is the\ncustom to \"call after the grass\"--\"chiamar l'erba\"--on March-day.\n\nIn the end, as has been seen, March gets an ill-word from the Greek\nfolk-singer, who is not more constant in his praise of April. It is\nthe old fatality which makes the Better the Enemy of the Good.\n\n  May is coming, May is coming, comes the month so blithe and gay;\n  April truly has its flowers, but all roses bloom in May;\n  April, thou accurst one, vanish! Sweet May-month I long to see;\n  May fills all the world with flowers, May will give my love to me.\n\nMay is pre-eminently the bridal month in Greece; a strange\ncontradiction to the prejudice against May marriages that prevails\nin most parts of Europe. \"Marry in May, rue for aye.\" The Romans have\nbeen held responsible for this superstition. They kept their festival\nof the dead during May, and while it lasted other forms of worship\nwere suspended. To contract marriage would have been to defy the\nfates. Traces of a spring feast of souls survive in France, where, on\nPalm Sunday, _Paques fleuries_ as it is called, it is customary to set\nthe first fresh flowers of the year upon the graves. Nor is it by any\nmeans uninteresting to note that in one great empire far outside of\nthe Roman world the _fete des morts_ is assigned not to the quiet\nclose of the year but to the delightful spring. The Chinese festival\nof Clear Weather which falls in April is the chosen time for\nworshipping at the family tombs.\n\nThe marriage of Mary Queen of Scots and James Bothwell was celebrated\non the 16th of May; an unknown hand wrote upon the gate of Holyrood\nPalace Ovid's warning:\n\n           Si te proverbia tangunt,\n  Mense malas Maio nubere vulgus ait.\n\nOf English songs treating of that \"observance\" or \"rite\" of May to\nwhich Chaucer and Shakespeare bear witness, there are unfortunately\nfew. The old nursery rhyme:\n\n  Here we go a-piping,\n  First in spring and then in May,\n\ntells the usual story of house-to-house visiting and expected largess.\nIn Devonshire, children used to take round a richly-dressed doll; such\na doll is still borne in triumph by the children of Great Missenden,\nBucks, where a doggerel is sung, of which these are the concluding\nverses:\n\n  A branch of May I have you brought,\n  And at your door I stand;\n  'Tis but a spray that's well put out\n  By the works of the mighty Lord's hand.\n\n  If you have got no strong beer,\n  We'll be content with small;\n  And take the goodwill of your house,\n  And give good thanks for all.\n\n  God bless the master of this house,\n  The mistress also;\n  Likewise the little children\n  That round the table go.\n\n  My song is done, I must be gone,\n  No longer can I stay;\n  God bless you all, both great and small,\n  And send you a joyful May.\n\nThe poets of Great Missenden not being prolific, the two middle\nstanzas are used at Christmas as well as on May-day.\n\nMay-poles were prohibited by the Long Parliament of 1644, being\ndenounced as a \"heathenish vanity generally abused to superstition and\nwickedness.\" A long while before, the Roman Floralia, the feast when\npeople carried green boughs and wore fresh garlands, had been put\ndown for somewhat the same reasons. With regard to May-poles I am not\ninclined to think too harshly of them. They died hard: an old Essex\nman told me on his death-bed of how when he was a lad the young folks\ndanced regularly round the May-pole on May-day, and in his opinion it\nwas a good time. It was a time, he went on to say, when the country\nwas a different thing; twice a day the postillion's horn sounded down\nthe village street, the Woolpack Inn was often full even to the attics\nin its pretty gabled roof, all sorts of persons of quality fell out\nof the clouds, or to speak exactly, emerged from the London coach.\nThe life of the place seemed to be gone, said my friend, and yet \"the\nplace\" is in the very highest state of modern prosperity.\n\nThe parade of sweeps in bowers of greenery lingered on rather longer\nin England than May-poles. It is stated to have originated in this\nway. Edward Wortley Montagu (born about 1714), who later was destined\nto win celebrity by still stranger freaks, escaped when a boy from\nWestminster School and borrowed the clothes of a chimney sweep,\nin whose trade he became an adept. A long search resulted in his\ndiscovery and restoration to his parents on May 1; in recollection\nof which event Mrs Elizabeth Montagu is said to have instituted\nthe May-day feast given by her for many years to the London\nchimney-sweepers.\n\nIn the country west of Glasgow it is still remembered how once the\nhouses were adorned with flowers and branches on the first of May,\nand in some parts of Ireland they still plant a May-tree or May-bush\nbefore the door of the farmhouse, throwing it at sundown into a\nbonfire. The lighting of fires was not an uncommon feature of May-day\nobservance, but it is a practice which seems to me to have strayed\ninto that connection from its proper place in the great festival of\nthe summer solstice on St John's Eve. Among people of English speech,\nMay-day customs are little more than a cheerful memory. Herrick wrote:\n\n  Wash, dress, be brief in praying,\n  Few beads are best when once we go a-maying.\n\nPeople neglect their \"beads\" or the equivalents now from other\nmotives.\n\nMay night is the German Walpurgis-nacht. The witches ride up to the\nBrocken on magpies' tails, not a magpie can be seen for the next\ntwenty-four hours--they are all gone and they have not had time to\nreturn. The witches dance on the Brocken till they have danced away\nthe winter's snow. May-brides and May-kings are still to be heard of\nin Germany, and children run about on May-day with buttercups or\nwith a twist of bread, a _Bretzel_, decked with ribbons, or holding\nimprisoned may-flies, which they let loose whilst they sing:\n\n  Maikaeferchen fliege,\n  Dein Vater ist in kriege,\n  Deine Mutter ist in Pommerland,\n  Pommerland ist abgebrannt,\n  Maikaeferchen fliege.\n\nMay chafer must fly away home, his father is at the wars, his mother\nis in Pomerania, Pomerania is all burnt. May chafer in short is the\nbrother of our ladybird. Dr Karl Blind is of opinion that \"Pommerland\"\nis a later interpolation for \"Holler-land\"--the land of Freya--Holda,\nthe Teutonic Aphrodite; and he and other German students of mythology\nsee in the conflagration an allusion to the final end and doom of the\nkingdom of the gods. It is pointed out that the ladybird was Freya's\nmessenger, whose business it was to call the unborn from their\ntranquil sojourn amongst celestial flowers, into the storms of human\nexistence. There is an airy May chafer song in Alsace--Teutonic in\ntradition, though French in tongue:\n\n      Avril, tu t'en vas,\n      Car Mai vient la-bas,\n  Pour balayer ta figure\n  De pluie, aussi de froidure.\n            Hanneton, vole!\n            Hanneton, vole!\n\n      Au firmament bleu\n      Ton nid est en feu,\n  Les Turcs avec leur epee\n  Viennent tuer ta couvee.\n            Hanneton, vole!\n            Hanneton, vole!\n\nDr Blind recollects taking part, as a boy, in an extremely curious\nchildren's drama, which is still played in some places in the open\nair. It is an allegory of the expulsion of winter, who is killed and\nburnt, and of the arrival of summer, who comes decked with flowers and\ngarlands. The children repeat:\n\n  Now have we chased death away,\n  And we bring the summer weather;\n  Summer dear and eke the May,\n  And the flowers all together:\n  Bringing summer we are come,\n  Summer tide and sunshine home.\n\nWith this may be compared an account given by Olaus Magnus, a Swedish\nwriter of the fifteenth century, of how May Day was celebrated in\nhis time. \"A number of youths on horseback were drawn up in two lines\nfacing each other, the one party representing 'Winter' and the other\n'Summer.' The leader of the former was clad in wild beasts' skins,\nand he and his men were armed with snow-balls and pieces of ice.\nThe commander of the latter--'Maj Greve,' or Count May--was, on the\ncontrary, decorated with leaves and flowers, and his followers had\nfor weapons branches of the birch or linden tree, which, having been\npreviously steeped in water, were then in leaf. At a given signal, a\nsham fight ensued between the opposing forces. If the season was cold\nand backward, 'Winter' and his party were impetuous in their attack,\nand in the beginning the advantage was supposed to rest with them;\nbut if the weather was genial, and the spring had fairly set in, 'Maj\nGreve' and his men carried all before them. Under any circumstances,\nhowever, the umpire always declared the victory to rest with 'Summer.'\nThe winter party then strewed ashes on the ground, and a joyous\nbanquet terminated the game.\" Mr L. Lloyd, author of \"Peasant Life\nin Sweden\" (1870), records some lines sung by Swedish children when\ncollecting provisions for the _Maj gille_ or May feast, which recall\nthe \"Swallow-song\":\n\n  \"Best loves from Mr and Mrs Magpie,\n  From all their eggs and all their fry,\n  O give them alms, if ever so small,\n  Else hens and chickens and eggs and all,\n  A prey to 'Piet' will surely fall.\"\n\nThe Swedes raise their _Maj st[)a]ng_ or May-pole, not on May, but\non St John's Eve, a change due, I suspect, to the exigencies of the\nclimate.\n\nGerman _Mailieder_ are one very much like the other; they are full of\nthe simple gladness of children who have been shut up in houses, and\nwho now can run about in the sunny air. I came across the following in\nSwitzerland:\n\n  \"Alles neu macht der Mai,\n  Macht die Seele frisch und frei.\n  Lasst dans Haus!\n  Kommt hinaus!\n  Windet einen Strauss!\n\n  \"Rings erglaenzet Sonnenschein,\n  Dustend pranget Flur und Hain.\n  Voegel-sang,\n  Lust'ger Klang\n  Toent den Wald entlang.\"\n\nIn Lorraine girls dressed in white go from village to village\nstringing off couplets, in which the inhabitants are turned into\nsomewhat unmerciful ridicule. The girls of this place enlighten the\npeople of that as to their small failings, and so _vice versa_. All\nthe winter the village poets harvest the jokes made by one community\nat the expense of another, in order to shape them into a consecutive\nwhole for recital on May Day. The girls are rewarded for their part in\nthe business by small coin, cakes and fruit. The May-songs of Lorraine\nare termed \"Trimazos,\" from the fact that they are always sung to the\nrefrain,\n\n  \"O Trimazot, c'at lo Maye;\n             O mi-Maye!\n  C'at lo joli mois de Maye,\n             C'at lo Trimazot.\"\n\nThe derivation of _Trimazo_ is uncertain; someone suggested that _Tri_\nstands for three, and _mazo_ for maidens; but I think _mazo_ is more\nlikely to be connected with the Italian _mazzo_, \"nosegay.\" The word\nis known outside Lorraine: at Islettes children say:\n\n  \"Trimazot! en nous allant\n  Nous pormenes eddans les champs\n  Nous y ons trouve les bles si grands\n  Les Aubepin' en fleurissant.\"\n\nThey beg for money to buy a taper for the Virgin's altar; for it\nmust not be forgotten that the month of May is the month of Mary.\nThe villagers add a little flour to their pious offering, so that the\nchildren may make cakes. Elsewhere in Champagne young girls collect\nthe taper money; they cunningly appeal to the tenderness of the young\nmother by bringing to her mind the hour \"when she takes her pretty\nchild up in the morning and lays him to sleep at night.\" There was\na day on which the girls of the neighbourhood of Remiremont used to\nway-lay every youth they met on the road to the church of Dommartin\nand insist on sticking a sprig of rosemary or laurel in his cap,\nsaying, \"We have found a fine gentleman, God give him joy and health;\ntake the May, the pretty May!\" The fine gentleman was requested to\ngive \"what he liked\" for the dear Virgin's sake. In the department of\nthe Jura there are May-brides, and in Bresse they have a May-queen who\nis attended by a youth, selected for the purpose, and by a little\nboy who carries a green bough ornamented with ribands. She heads the\nvillage girls and boys, who walk as in a marriage procession, and who\nreceive eggs, wine, or money. A song still sung in Burgundy recalls\nthe prae-revolutionary aera and the respect inspired by the seigneurial\nwoods:--\n\n  \"Le voila venu le joli mois,\n     Laissez bourgeonner le bois;\n  Le voila venu le joli mois,\n     Le joli bois bourgeonne.\n  Il faut laisser bourgeonner le bois,\n     Le bois du gentilhomme.\"\n\nThe young peasants of Poitou betake themselves to the door of each\nhomestead before the dawn of the May morning and summon the mistress\nof the house to waken her daughters:--\n\n  \"For we are come before hath come the day\n  To sing the coming of the month of May.\"\n\nBut they do not ask the damsels to stand there listening to\ncompliments; \"Go to the hen-roost,\" they say, \"and get eighteen, or\nstill better, twenty new laid eggs.\" If the eggs cannot be had, they\ncan bring money, only let them make haste, as day-break is near and\nthe road is long. By way of acknowledgment the spokesman adds a sort\nof \"And your petitioners will ever pray;\" they will pray for the\npurse which held the money and for the hen that laid the eggs. If St\nNicholas only hears them that hen will eat the fox, instead of the fox\neating the hen. The gift is seemly. Now the dwellers in the homestead\nmay go back to their beds and bar doors and windows; \"as for us, we go\nthrough all the night singing at the arrival of sweet spring.\"\n\nThe antiquary in search of May-songs will turn to the Motets and\nPastorals of that six-hundred-year-old Comic Opera \"Li gieus de\nRobin et de Marion.\" Its origin was not illiterate, but in Adam de la\nHalle's time and country poets who had some letters and poets who\nhad none did not stand so widely apart. The May month, the summer\nsweetness, the lilies of the valley, the green meadows--these\nconstituted pretty well the whole idea which the French rustic had\nformed to himself of what poetry was. It cannot be denied that he\ncame to use these things occasionally as mere commonplaces, a tendency\nwhich increased as time wore on. But he has his better moods, and\nsome of his ditties are not wanting in elegance. Here is an old song\npreserved in Burgundy:\n\n  Voici venu le mois des fleurs\n  Des chansons et des senteurs;\n       Le mois qui tout enchante\n       Le mois de douce attente.\n  Le buisson reprend ses couleurs\n       Au bois l'oiseau chante.\n\n  Il est venu sans mes amours\n  One j'attends, helas, toujours;\n       Tandis que l'oiseau chante\n       Et que le mai l' on plante\n  Seule en ces bois que je parcours\n       Seule je me lamente.\n\nIn the France of the sixteenth century, the planting of the May took a\nliterary turn. At Lyons, for instance, the printers were in the habit\nof setting up what was called \"Le Mai des Imprimeurs\" before the door\nof some distinguished person. The members of the illustrious Lombard\nhouse of Trivulzi, who between them held the government of Lyons\nfor more than twenty-five years, were on several occasions chosen as\nrecipients of the May-day compliment. \"Le Grand Trivulce,\" marshal of\nFrance, was a great patron of literature, and the encouragement of the\nliberal arts grew to be a tradition in the family. In 1529 Theodore\nde Trivulce had a May planted in his honour bearing a poetical address\nfrom the pen of Clement Marot, and Pompone de Trivulce received a like\ndistinction in 1535, when Etienne Dolet wrote for the occasion an\node in the purest Latin, which may be read in Mr R. C. Christie's\nbiography of its author.\n\nGiulio Cesare Croce, the famous ballad-singer of Bologna (born 1550),\nwrote a \"Canzonetta vaga in lode del bel mese di maggio et delle\nregine o contesse che si fanno quel giorno in Bologna,\" and in 1622, a\nsmall book was published at Bologna, entitled: \"Ragionamenti piacevoli\nintorno alle contesse di maggio; piantar il maggio; nozze che si\nfanno in maggio.\" The author, Vincenzo Giacchiroli, observes: \"These\ncountesses, according to what I have read, the Florentines call Dukes\nof May--perhaps because there they have real dukes.\" The first of May,\nhe continues, the young girls select one from among them and set her\non a high seat or throne in some public street, adorned and surrounded\nwith greenery, and with such flowers as the season affords. To\nthis maiden, in semblance like the goddess Flora, they compel every\npasser-by to give something, either by catching him by his clothes, or\nby holding a cord across the street to intercept him, singing at the\nsame time, \"Alla contessa, alla contessa!\" They who pass, therefore,\nthrow into a plate or receptacle prepared for the purpose, money, or\nflowers, or what not, for the new countess. In some places it was the\ncustom to kiss the countess; \"neither,\" adds the author, \"is this\nto be condemned, since so were wont to do the ancients as a sign of\nhonour.\"\n\nRegarding a similar usage at Mantua, Merlinus Coccaius (Folengo)\nwrote:\n\n  \"Accidit una dies qua Mantua tota bagordat\n  Prima dies mensis Maii quo quisque piantat\n  Per stradas ramos frondosos nomine mazzos.\" &c.\n\nExactly the same practice lingers in Spain. In the town of Almeria,\nimprovised temples are raised at the street corners and gateways,\nwhere, on an altar covered with damask or other rich stuff, a girl\ndecked with flowers is seated, whilst around her in a circle stand\nother girls, also crowned with flowers, who hold hands, and intone,\nlike a Greek chorus--\n\n    \"Un cuartito para la Maya,\n  Que no tiene manto ni saya.\"\n\n\"A penny for the May who has neither mantle nor petticoat.\"\n\nLorenzo de' Medici says in one of his ballads:\n\n  Se tu vuo' appiccare un maio.\n  A qualcuna che tu ami....\n\nIn his day \"Singing the May\" was almost a trade; the country folk\nflocked into Florence with their May trees and rustic instruments and\ntook toll of the citizens. The custom continues along the Ligurian\ncoast. At Spezia I saw the boys come round on May-day piping and\nsinging, and led by one, taller than the rest, who carried an Italian\nflag covered with garlands. The name of the master of the house before\nwhich they halt is introduced into a song that begins:\n\n  Siam venuti a cantar maggio,\n    Al Signore ----\n  Come ogn' anno usar si suole,\n    Nella stagion di primavera.\n\nSince Chaucer, who loved so dearly the \"May Kalendes\" and the \"See of\nthe day,\" no one has celebrated them with a more ingenuous charm than\nthe country lads of the island of Sardinia, who sing \"May, May, be\nthou welcome, with all Sun and Love; with the Flower and with the\nSoul, and with the Marguerite.\" A Tuscan and a Pisan _Rispetto_ may be\ntaken as representative of Italian May-song:\n\n    'Twas in the Calends of the month of May,\n      I went into the garden for a flower,\n    A wild bird there I saw upon a spray,\n      Singing of love with skilled melodious power.\n    O little bird, who dost from Florence speed\n    Teach me whence loving doth at first proceed?\n    Love has its birth in music and in songs\n    Its end, alas! to tears and grief belongs.\n\n  Era di maggio, se ben mi ricordo\n        Quando c'incominciammo a ben volere\n        Eran fiorite le rose dell'orto,\n        E le ciliege diventavan nere;\n          Ciliege nere e pere moscatelle,\n        Siete il trionfo delle donne belle\n          Ciliege nere e pere moscatate.\n        Siete il trionfo delle innamorate\n          Ciliege nere e pere moscatine.\n        Siete il trionfo delle piu belline.\n\nThe child's or lover's play of words in this last baffles all attempt\nat translation: it is not sense but sweetness, not poetry but music.\nIt is as much without rule or study or conventionality as the song of\nbirds when in Italian phrase, _fanno primavera_.\n\nIn the Province of Brescia the Thursday of Mid-Lent is kept by what\nis called \"Burning the old women.\" A doll made of straw or rags,\nrepresenting the oldest woman, is hung outside the window; or, if in\na street, suspended from a cord passed from one side to the other.\nEveryone makes the tour of town or village to see _le Vecchie_ who at\nsundown are consigned to the flames, generally with a distaff placed\nin their hands. It is a picturesque sight at Salo, when the bonfires\nblaze at different heights up the hills, casting long reflections\nacross the clear lake-water. The sacrifice is consummated--but what\nsacrifice? I was at first disposed to simply consider the \"old woman\"\nas a type of winter, but I am informed that by those who have studied\nrelics of the same usage in other lands, she is held to be a relative\nof the \"harvest-man\" or growth-genius, who must be either appeased or\ndestroyed. Yet a third interpretation occurs to me, which I offer for\nwhat it is worth. Might not the _Vecchia_ be the husk which must be\ncast off before the miracle of new birth is accomplished? \"The seed\nthat thou sowest shall not quicken unless it die.\" Hardly any idea has\nfurnished so much occasion for symbolism as this, that life is death,\nand death is life.\n\nProfessor d'Ancona believes, that to the custom of keeping May by\nsinging from house to house and collecting largess of eggs or fruit or\ncheese, may be traced the dramatic representations, which, under the\nname of _Maggi_, can still be witnessed in certain districts of the\nTuscan Hills and of the plain of Pisa. These May-plays are performed\nany Sunday in Spring, just after Mass; the men, women, and children,\nhastening from the church-door to the roughly-built theatre which has\nthe sky for roof, the grey olives and purple hills for background.\nThe verses of the play (it is always in verse) are sung to a sort of\nmonotonous but elastic chant, in nearly every case unaccompanied\nby instruments. No one can do more than guess when that chant was\ncomposed; it may have been five hundred years ago and it may have been\nmuch more. Grief or joy, love and hate, all are expressed upon the\nsame notes. It is possible that some such recitative was used in the\nGreek drama. A play that was not sung would not seem a play to\nthe Tuscan contadino. The characters are acted by men or boys, the\npeasants not liking their wives and daughters to perform in public.\nA considerable number of _Maggi_ exist in print or in MS. carefully\ncopied for the convenience of the actors. The subjects range from\nKing David to Count Ugolino, from the siege of Troy to the French\nRevolution. They seem for most part modern compositions, cast in a\nform which was probably invented before the age of Dante.\n\n\n\n\nTHE IDEA OF FATE IN SOUTHERN TRADITIONS.\n\n\nIn the early world of Greece and Italy, the beliefs relating to\nFate had a vital and penetrative force which belonged only to them.\n\"Nothing,\" says Sophocles, \"is so terrible to man as Fate.\" It was the\nshadow cast down the broad sunlight of the roofless Hellenic life. All\nGreece, its gods and men, bowed at that word which Victor Hugo saw,\nor imagined that he saw, graven on a pillar of Notre Dame: [Greek:\nAnanke]. Necessity alone of the supernatural powers was not made by\nman in his own image. It had no sacred grove, for in the whole world\nthere was no place where to escape from it, no peculiar sect of\nvotaries, for all were bound equally to obey; it could not be bought\noff with riches nor withstood by valour; no man worshipped it, many\ngroaned under its dispensation; but by all it was vaguely felt to be\nthe instrument of a pure justice. If they did not, with Herder, call\nFate's law \"Eternal Truth,\" yet their idea of necessity carried these\nmen nearer than did any other of their speculative guesses to the idea\nof a morally-governed universe.\n\nThe belief in one Fate had its train of accessorial beliefs. The\nParcae and the Erinnyes figured as dark angels of Destiny. Then, in\nresponse to the double needs of superstition and materialism, the\nimpersonal Fate itself took the form of the Greek Tyche, and of that\nFortuna, who, in Rome alone, had no less than eight temples. There\nwere some indeed who saw in Fortune nothing else than the old _dira\nnecessitas_; but to the popular mind, she was nearer to chance than to\nnecessity; she dealt out the favourable accident which goes further\nto secure success than do the subtlest combinations of men. The Romans\ndid not only demand of a military leader that he should have talent,\nforesight, energy; they asked, was he _felix_--happy, fortunate? Since\nhuman life was seen to be, on the whole, but a sorry business,\nand since it was also seen that the prosperous were not always the\nmeritorious, the inference followed that Fortune was capricious,\nchangeable, and, if not immoral, at least unmoral. With this character\nshe came down to the Middle Ages, having contrived to outlive the\nwhole Roman pantheon.\n\nSo Dante found her, and inquired of his guide who and what she might\nreally be?\n\n      Maestro, dissi lui, or mi di' anche:\n  Questa Fortuna di che tu mi tocche,\n  Che e, che i ben del mondo ha si tra branche?\n\nDante had no wish to level the spiritual windmills that lay in his\npath: he left them standing, only seeking a proper reason for their\nbeing there. Therefore he did not answer himself in the words of the\nTuscan proverb: \"Chi crede in sorte, non crede in Dio;\" but, on the\ncontrary, tried to prove that the two beliefs might be perfectly\nreconciled. \"He whose knowledge transcends all things\" (is the reply)\n\"fashioned the heavens, and gave unto them a controlling force in such\nwise that each part shines upon each, distributing equally the\nlight. Also to worldly splendours he ordained a general minister, and\ncaptain, who should timely change the tide of vain prosperity from\nrace to race and from blood to blood. Why these prevail, and those\nlanguish, according to her ruling, is hidden, like the snake in the\ngrass; your knowledge has in her no counterpart; she provides,\njudges, and pursues her governance, as do theirs the other gods. Her\npermutations have no truce, necessity makes her swift; for he is swift\nin coming who would have his turn. This is she who is upbraided\neven by those who should praise her, giving her blame wrongfully and\nill-repute; but she continues blessed, and hearkens not; glad among\nthe other primal creatures, she revolves her sphere, and being\nblessed, rejoices.\"\n\nThe peasants, the _pagani_ of Italy, did not give their name for\nnothing to the entire system of antiquity. They were its last, its\nmost faithful adherents, and to this day their inmost being is\nwatered from the springs of the antique. They have preserved old-world\nthoughts as they have preserved old-world pots and pans. In the\nisolated Tuscan farm you will be lighted to your bed by a woman\ncarrying an oil lamp identical in form with those buried in Etruscan\ntombs; on the Neapolitan hill-side a girl will give you to drink\nout of a jar not to be distinguished from the amphorae of Pompeii. A\nstranger hunting in the campagna may often hear himself addressed with\nthe \"Tu\" of Roman simplicity. The living Italian people are the most\ninteresting of classical remains. Even their religion has helped\nto perpetuate practices older than Italy. How is it possible, for\ninstance, to see the humble shrine by vineyard or maize field,\nwith its posy of flowers and its wreath of box hung before the mild\ncountenance of some local saint, without remembering what the chorus\nsays to Admetus: \"Deem not, O king, of the tomb of thy wife as of\nthe vulgar departed; rather let it be kept in religious veneration,\na cynosure for the way-faring man. And as one climbs the slanting\npathway, these will be the words he utters: 'This was she who erewhile\nlaid down her life for her husband; now she is a saint for evermore.\nHail, blessed spirit, befriend and aid us!' Such the words that will\nbe spoken.\"\n\nCan it be doubted that the Catholic honour of the dead--nay, even the\ncult of the Virgin, which crept so mysteriously into the exercise\nof Christian worship--had birth, not in the councils of priests and\nschoolmen, but in the all-unconscious grafting by the people of Italy\nof the new faith upon an older stock?\n\nWith this persistency of thought, observable in outward trifles, as in\nthe deepest yearnings of the soul, it would be strange if the Italian\nmind had ceased to occupy itself with the old wonder about fate. The\nfolk-lore of the country will show the mould into which the ancient\nspeculations have been cast, and in how far these have undergone\nchange, whether in the sense of assimilating new theories or in that\nof reverting to a still earlier order of ideas.\n\nThey tell at Venice the story of a husbandman who had set his heart\non finding _one who was just_ to be sponsor to his new-born child. He\ntook the babe in his arms and went forth into the public ways to seek\n_El Giusto_. He walked and walked and met a man (who was our Lord) and\nto him he said, \"I have got this son to christen, but I do not wish\nto give him to any one who is not just. Are you just?\" To him the Lord\nreplied, \"But I do not know if I am just.\" Then the husbandman went\na little further and met a woman (who was the Madonna), and to her he\nsaid, \"I have this son to christen, but I only wish to give him to one\nwho is just. Are you just?\" \"I know not,\" said the Madonna; \"but go a\nlittle further and you will meet one who is just.\" After that, he went\na little further, and met another woman who was Death. \"I have been\nsent to you,\" he said, \"for they say you are just. I have a child to\nchristen, and I do not wish to give him except to one who is just.\nAre you just?\" \"Why, yes; I think I am just,\" said Death; \"but let us\nchristen the babe and afterwards I will show you if I am just.\" So\nthe boy was christened, and then this woman led the husbandman into a\nlong, long room where there were an immense number of lighted lamps.\n\"Gossip,\" said the man, who marvelled at seeing so many lamps, \"what\nis the meaning of all these lights?\" Said Death: \"These are the lights\nof all the souls that are in the world. Would you like just to see,\nGossip? That is yours, and that is your son's.\" And the husbandman,\nwho saw that his lamp was going out, said, \"And when there is no more\noil, Gossip?\" \"Then,\" replied Death, \"one has to come to me, for I\nam Death.\" \"Oh! for charity,\" said the husbandman, \"do let me pour a\nlittle of the oil out of my son's lamp into mine!\" \"No, no, Gossip,\"\nsaid Death, \"I don't go in for that sort of thing. A just one you\nwished to meet, and a just one you have found. And now, go you to your\nhouse and put your affairs in order, for I am waiting for you.\"[1]\n\nIn this parable, we see a severe fatalism, which is still more\noriental than antique.\n\n  ... God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives\n  That lamp due measure of oil....\n\nThe Mahomedans say that there are trees in heaven on each of whose\nleaves is the name of a human being, and whenever one of these leaves\nwithers and falls, the man whose name it bears dies with it. The\nconception of human life as of something bound up and incorporated\nwith an object seemingly foreign, lies at the very root of elementary\nbeliefs. In an Indian tale the life of a boy resides in a gold\nnecklace which is in the heart of a fish; in another a woman's life is\ncontained in a bird: when the bird is killed, the woman must perish.\nIn a third a prince plants a tree before he goes on a journey, saying\nas he does so, \"This tree is my life. When you see the tree green and\nfresh, then know that it is well with me. When you see the tree fade\nin some parts, then know that I am in an ill case. When you see the\nwhole tree fade, then know that I am dead and gone.\"\n\nAccording to a legend of wide extension--it is known from Esthonia to\nthe Pyrenees--all men were once aware of the hour of their death. But\none day Christ went by and saw a man raising a hedge of straw. \"That\nhedge will last but for a short while,\" He said; to which the man\nanswered, \"It will be good for as long as I live; that it should last\nlonger, matters not;\" and forthwith Christ ordained that no man should\nthereafter know when he should die.\n\nThe southern populations of Italy cling to the idea that from the\nmoment of a man's birth his future lot is decided, whether for good\nor evil hap, and that he has but little power of altering or modifying\nthe irrevocable sentence. There are lucky and unlucky days to be born\non; lucky and unlucky circumstances attendant on an entry into the\nworld, which affect all stages of the subsequent career. He who is\nborn on the last day of the year, will always arrive late. It is very\nunfortunate to be born when there is no moon. Anciently the moon was\ntaken as symbol both of Fortune, and of Hecate, goddess of Magic.\nThe Calabrian children have a song: \"Moon, holy moon, send me good\nfortune; thou shining, and I content, lustrous thou, I fortunate.\"\nAlso at Cagliari, in Sardinia, they sing: \"Moon, my moon, give me\nluck; give me money, so I may amuse myself; give it soon, so I may buy\nsweetmeats.\" The changing phases of the moon doubtless contributed to\nits identification with fortune; \"Wind, women, and fortune,\" runs the\nBasque proverb, \"change like the moon.\" But yet more, its influence\nover terrestrial phenomena, always mysterious to the ignorant observer\nand by him readily magnified to any extent, served to connect it with\nwhatever occult, unaccountable power was uppermost in people's minds.\n\nIn Italy, nothing is done without consulting the _Lunario_. All kinds\nof roots and seeds must be planted with the new moon, or they will\nbear no produce. Timber must be cut down with the old moon, or it will\nquickly rot. These rules and many more are usually followed; and it\nis reported as a matter of fact, that their infringement brings the\nlooked-for results. In the Neapolitan province, old women go to the\ngraveyards by night and count the tombs illuminated by the moonlight;\nthe sum total gives them a \"number\" for the lottery. The extraordinary\nvagaries of superstition kept alive by the public lotteries are of\nalmost endless variety and complexity. No well-known man dies without\nthousands of the poorest Neapolitans racking their brains with abtruse\ncalculations on the dates of his birth, death, and so on, in the hope\nof discovering a lucky number. Fortune, chance (what, after all, shall\nit be called?) sometimes strangely favours these pagan devices. When\nPio Nono died, the losses of the Italian exchequer were enormous; and\nin January 1884, the numbers staked on the occasion of the death of\nthe patriot De Sanctis, produced winnings to the amount of over two\nmillion francs. During the last cholera epidemic, the daily rate of\nmortality was eagerly studied with a view to happy combinations. Even\nin North Italy such things are not unknown. At Venice, when a notable\nEnglishman died some years ago in a hotel, the number of his room was\nplayed next day by half the population. Domestic servants are among\nthe most inveterate gamblers; they all have their cabalistic books,\nand a large part of their earnings goes to the insatiable \"lotto.\"\n\nThe feeling of helplessness in the hands of Fate is strongest in those\ncountries where there is the least control over Nature. The relations\nbetween man and Nature affect not only the social life, but also the\ntheology and politics of whole races of men. A learned Armenian who\nlives at Venice, came to London for a week in June to see some English\nfriends. It rained every day, and when he left Dover, the white\ncliffs were enveloped in impenetrable fog. \"I asked myself\" (he wrote,\ndescribing his experiences) \"how it was possible that a great nation\nshould exist behind all that vapour?\" It was suggested to him that\nin the continual but, in the long run, victorious struggle with an\nungenial climate might lie the secret of the development of that great\nnation. Different are the lands where the soil yields its increase\nalmost without the labour of man, till one fine day the whole is\nswallowed up by flood or earthquake.\n\nThe songs of luck, or rather of ill-luck, nearly all come from the\nCalabrias. There are hundreds of variations upon the monotonous\ntheme of predestined misery. \"In my mother's womb I began to have no\nfortune; my swaddling clothes were woven of melancholy; when we\nwent to church, the woman who carried me died upon the way, and the\ngodfather who held me at the font said, 'Misfortunate art thou born,\nmy daughter!'\" Here is another: \"Hapless was I born, and with a\ndarkened moon; never did a fair day dawn for me. Habited in weeds, and\nattended by cruel fortune, I sail upon a sea of grief and trouble.\" Or\nthis: \"Wretched am I, for against me conspired heaven and fortune and\ndestiny; and the four elements decreed that never should I prosper:\nearth would engulf me; air took away my breath; water flowed with my\ntears; fire burnt this poor heart.\" Again: \"I was created under an\nill-star; never had I an hour's content. By my friends I saw myself\nforsaken, and chased away by my mistress. The heavens moved against\nme, the stars, the planets, and fortune; if there is no better lot\nfor me, open thou earth and give me sepulchre!\" The luckless wretch\nimagines that the sea, even where it was deepest, dried up at his\nbirth; and the spring dried up for that year, and all the flowers that\nwere in the world dried up; and the birds went singing: \"I am the most\nluckless wight on earth!\" Human friendship is a delusion: \"I was the\nfriend of all, and a true friend--for my friends I reckoned life as\nlittle.\" But he is not served so by others: \"Wretched is he who trusts\nin fortune; sad is he who hopes in human friendship! Every friend\nabandons thee at need, and walks afar from thy sorrow.\" No good can\ncome to him who is born for ill: \"When I was born, it was at sea,\namongst Turks and Moors. A gipsy asked to tell my fortune; 'Dig,' she\nsaid, 'and thou shalt find a great treasure.' I took the spade in my\nhand to dig, but I found neither silver nor gold. Traitress gipsy who\ndeceived me! Who is born afflicted, dies disconsolate.\"\n\nSo continues the long tale of woe; childish in part, but withal tragic\nby other force of iteration. This song of Nardo may be taken as its\nepitome:\n\n  The heavens were overcast when I was born;\n  No luck for me, no, luckless and forlorn,\n  E'en from my cradle, all forlorn was I;\n  No luck for me, no, grief for ever nigh.\n  I loved--my love was paid by fraud and scorn;\n  No luck for me, no, luckless and forlorn.\n  The stars and moon were darkened in the sky,\n  No luck for me, no, naught but misery!\n\nThe Calabrians have a house-spirit called the _Auguriellu_, who\nappears generally dressed as a little monk, and who has his post\nespecially by babies' cradles: he is thought to be one of the less\nerring fallen angels, and is harmless and even beneficent if kindly\ntreated. The \"house-women\" (_Donne di casa_) of Sicily are also in the\nhabit of watching the sleep of infants. But in no part of Italy does\nthere seem to be any distinct recollection of the Parcae. In Greece,\non the other hand, the three dread sisters are still honoured by\npropitiatory rites, and they figure frequently in the folk-lore of\nBulgaria and Albania. A Bulgarian song shows them weaving the destiny\nof the infant Saviour. In M. Auguste Dozon's collection of Albanian\nstories, there is one called \"The sold child,\" which bears directly on\nthe survival of the Parcae. \"There was an old man and woman who had no\nchildren\" (so runs the tale). \"At last at the end of I do not know how\nmany years, God gave them a son, and their joy was without bounds that\nthe Lord had thus remembered them. Two nights had passed since the\nbirth, and the third drew nigh, when the Three Women would come to\nassign the child his destiny.\n\n\"That night it was raining so frightfully that nobody dared put his\nnose out of doors, lest he should be carried away by the waters and\ndrowned. Nevertheless, who should arrive through the rain but a Pasha,\nwho asked the old man for a night's lodging. The latter, seeing that\nit was a person of importance, was very glad; he put him in the place\nof honour at the hearth, lit a large fire, gave him to eat what he\ncould find; and putting aside certain objects, which he set in a\ncorner, he made room for the Pasha's horse--for this house was only\nhalf covered in, a part of the roof was missing.\n\n\"The Pasha, when he was warmed and refreshed, had nothing more to do\nbut to go to sleep; but how can one let himself go to sleep when he\nhas I know not how many thousand piastres about him?\n\n\"That night, as we have said already, the Three Women were to come and\napportion the child his destiny. They came, sure enough, and sat down\nby the fire. The Pasha, at the sight of that, was in a great fright,\nbut he kept quiet, and did not make the least sound.\n\n\"Let us leave the Pasha and busy ourselves with these women. The first\nof the three said, 'This child will not live long; he will die early.'\nThe second said, replying to her who had just spoken, 'This child\nwill live many years, and then he will die by the hand of his father.'\nFinally the third spoke as follows: 'My friends, what are you talking\nabout? This child will live sufficiently long to kill the Pasha you\nsee there, rob him of his authority, and marry his daughter.'\"\n\nHow the Pasha froze with fear when he heard that sentence, how he\npersuaded the old man to let him have the child under pretence of\nadopting him, how he endeavoured by every means, but vainly, to put\nhim out of the way, and how, in the end, he fell into an ambush he\nhad prepared for his predestined successor, must be read in M. Dozon's\nentertaining pages. Though not precisely stated, it would seem that\nthe mistaken predictions of the two first women arose rather from a\nmisinterpretation of the future than from complete ignorance. The\nboy but narrowly escaped the evils they threatened. In Scandinavian\ntraditions a disagreement among the Norns is not uncommon. In one\ncase, two Norns assign to a newborn child long life and happiness, but\nthe third and youngest decrees that he shall only live while a lighted\ntaper burns. The eldest Norn snatches the taper, puts it out, and\ngives it to the child's mother, not to be kindled till the last day of\nhis life.\n\nIn India it is the deity Bidhata-Purusha who forecasts the events of\neach man's life, writing them succinctly on the forehead of the child\nsix days after birth. The apportionment of good and evil fortune\nbelongs to Lakshmi and Sani. Once they fell out in heaven, and Sani,\nthe giver of ill, said that he ranked higher than the beneficent\nLakshmi. The gods and goddesses were equally ranged on either side,\nso the two disputants decided to refer the case to a just mortal. To\nwhich end they approached a wise and wealthy man called Sribatsa. Now\nSribatsa means \"the child of Fortune,\" Sri being one of the names of\nLakshmi. Sribatsa did not know what to do lest he should give offence\nto one or the other of the celestial powers. At last he set out two\nstools without saying a word; one was silver, and on that he bade Sani\nsit; the other was gold, and to that he conducted Lakshmi. But Sani\nwas furious at having only the silver stool, so he swore that he would\ncast his evil eye upon Sribatsa for three years, \"and I should like to\nsee how you fare at the end of that time,\" he added. When he was gone,\nLakshmi said: \"My child, do not fear; I'll befriend you.\" Needless to\nsay that after the three trial years were passed, Sribatsa became far\nmore prosperous than he had ever been before.\n\nAmong the Parsis, a tray with writing materials including a sheet of\nblank paper is placed by the mother's bed on the night of the sixth\nday. The goddess who rules human destiny traces upon the paper the\ncourse of the child's future, which henceforth cannot be changed,\nthough the writing is invisible to mortal eyes.\n\nIn Calabria there is a plant called \"Fortune's Grass,\" which is\nsuspended to the beams of the ceiling: if the leaves turn upwards,\nFortune is sure to follow; if downwards, things may be expected to go\nwrong. The oracle is chiefly consulted on Ascension Day, when it is\nasked to tell the secrets confided to it by Christ when He walked upon\nthe earth.\n\nAuguries, portents, charms, waxen images, votive offerings, the evil\neye and its antidotes, happy \"finds,\" such as horseshoes, four-leaved\nshamrocks, and two-tailed lizards: these, and an infinite number of\nkindred superstitions, are closely linked with what may be called\nthe Science of Luck. Fortune and Hecate come into no mere chance\ncontiguity when they meet in the moon. For the rest, there is hardly\nany popular belief that has not points of contact with magic, and that\nis not in some sort made the more comprehensible by looking at the\npremises on which magical rites rest. Magic is the power admitted to\nexist among all classes not so very long ago, of entering by certain\nprocesses into relation with invisible powers. For modern convenience\nit was distinguished into black magic, and natural, and white--the\nlatter name being given when the intention of the operant was only\ngood or allowable, and when the powers invoked were only such as\nmight be supposed, whether great or small, to be working in good\nunderstanding with the Creator. The reason of existence of all magic,\nwhich runs up into unfathomable antiquity, lies in the maxim of the\nancient sages, Egyptian, Hebrew, Platonist, that all things visible\nand sensible are but types of things or beings immediately above\nthem, and have their origin in such. Hence, in magical rites, black\nor white, men used and offered to the unseen powers those words or\nactions or substances which were conceived to be in correspondence\nwith their character or nature, employing withal certain secret\ntraditional man[oe]uvres. The lowest surviving form is fetish;\nsacrifice also had a similar source; so had the Mosaic prescriptions,\nin which only innocent rites and pure substances were to be employed.\nWhereas the most horrible practices and repulsive substances have\nalways been associated with witches, necromancers, &c., who are\nreported to have put their wills at the absolute disposal of the\ninfernal and malevolent powers who work in direct counter-action of\nthe decrees and providence of the Deity. Hence the renunciation of\nbaptism, treading on holy things, the significant act of saying the\nLord's Prayer backwards, _i.e._, in the opposite intention to that of\nthe author. This is the consummate sin of _pacti_, or, as it is said,\n\"selling the soul,\" and is the very opposite of divine magic or the\nway of the typical saint: \"Present yourselves a living sacrifice (not\na dead carcase) in body, soul, and spirit.\" To persons in the last\ncondition unusual effects have been ascribed, as it was believed that\nthose who had put themselves at the absolute disposal of the malignant\npowers were also enabled to effect singular things, on the wrong side,\nindeed, and very inferior in order, so long as the agreement held\ngood.\n\nThe most sensible definition of magic is \"an effect sought to be\nproduced by antecedents obviously inadequate in themselves.\" Certain\nwords, gestures, practices, have been recognised on the tradition of\nancient experience to have certain remedial or other properties or\nconsequents, and they are used in all simplicity by persons who can\nfind no other reason than that they are thought to succeed.\n\nOne of the most remarkable of early ideas still current about human\ndestiny is that which pictures each man coupled with a personal and\nindividualised fate. This fate may be beneficent or maleficent, a\nguardian angel or a possessive fiend; or it may, in appearance at\nleast, combine both functions. The belief in a personal fate was\ndeeply rooted among the Greeks and Romans, and proved especially\nacceptable to the Platonists. Socrates' daemon comes to mind: but in\nthat case the analogy is not clear, because the inward voice to\nwhich the name of daemon was afterwards given, was rather a personal\nconscience than a personal fate--a difference that involves the whole\nquestion of the responsibility of man. But the evil genii of Dion the\nSyracusan and of Brutus were plainly \"personal fates.\" Dion's evil\ngenius appeared to him when he was sitting alone in the portico before\nhis house one evening; it had the form of a gigantic woman, like one\nof the furies as they were represented on the stage, sweeping the\nfloor with a broom. It did not speak, but the apparition was followed\nby the death of Dion's son, who jumped in a fit of childish passion\nfrom the house-top, and soon after, Dion himself was assassinated.\nBrutus' daemon was, as every-one knows, a monstrous spectre that seemed\nto be standing beside him in his tent one night, a little while before\nhe left Asia, and which, on being questioned, said to him, \"I am thy\nevil genius, Brutus, thou wilt see me at Philippi.\"\n\nWe catch sight again of the personal fate in the relations of\nAntony with the young Octavius. Antony had in his house an Egyptian\nastrologer, who advised him by all means to keep away from the young\nman, \"for your genius,\" he said, \"is in fear of his; when it is alone\nits port is erect and fearless, when his approaches it, it is dejected\nand depressed.\" There were circumstances, says Plutarch, that carried\nout this view, for in every kind of play, whether they cast lots or\ncast the die, Antony was still the loser; in their cock fights and\nquail fights, it was still \"Caesar's cock and Caesar's quail.\"\n\nIn ancient Norse and Teutonic traditions, where Salida, or Frau Saelde,\ntakes the place of Fortuna, we find indications of the personal fate,\nboth kindly and unkindly. The fate appeared to its human turn chiefly\nin the hour of death, that is, in the hour of parting company.\nSometimes it was attached not to one person, but to a whole family,\npassing on from one to another, as in the case of the not yet extinct\nsuperstition of the White Lady of the Hohenzollerns.\n\nIn a very old German story, quoted by Jacob Grimm, a poor knight is\nshown, eating his frugal meal in a wood, who on looking up, sees\na monstrous creature among the boughs which cries, \"I am thy\n_ungeluecke_!\" The knight asks his \"ill-luck\" to share his meal, and\nwhen it comes down, catches it, and shuts it up in a hollow oak.\nSomeone, who wishes to do him an ill-turn, lets out the _ungeluecke_;\nbut instead of reverting to the knight, it jumps on the back of its\nevil-minded deliverer.\n\nIn the Sicilian story of \"Feledico and Epomata,\" one of those\ncollected by Frauelein Laura Gonzenbach,[2] a childless king and queen\ndesire to have children. One day they see a soothsayer going by: they\ncall him in, and he says that the queen will bear a son, but that he\nwill die when he is eighteen years of age. The grief of the royal pair\nis extreme, and they ask the soothsayer for advice what to do. He can\nonly suggest that they should shut the child up in a tower till the\nunlucky hour be past, after which his fate will have no more power\nover him. This is accordingly done, and the child sees no one in the\ntower but the nurse and a lady of the court, whom he believes to be\nhis mother. One day, when the lady has gone to make her report to the\nqueen, the boy hears his fate crying to him in his sleep, and asking\nwhy he stays shut up there, when his real father and mother are king\nand queen and live in a fine castle? He makes inquiries, and at first\nis pacified by evasive answers, but after three visits of his fate,\nwho always utters the same words, he insists on going to the castle\nand seeing his father and mother. \"His fate has found him out, there\nis no good in resisting it,\" says the queen. However, by the agency\nof Epomata, the beautiful daughter of an enchantress, who had conveyed\nthe prince to her castle, and had provided for his execution on the\nvery day ordained by his fate, Feledico tides over the fatal moment\nand attains a good old age.\n\nHahn states that the Greek name of [Greek: Moirai] is given by the\nAlbanians to what I have called personal fates, as well as to the\nParcae; but the Turkish designation of _Bakht_, meaning a sort of\nprotecting spirit, seems to be in more common use. The Albanian\nstory-teller mentions a negress who is in want of some sequins, and\nwho says, \"Go and find my fortune (_Bakht_), but first make her a\ncake, and when you offer it to her, ask her for a few gold pieces.\"\n\n\nA like propitiatory offering of food to one's personal fate forms a\nfeature of a second Sicilian story which is so important in all its\nbearings on the subject in hand, that it would not do to abridge it.\nHere it is, therefore, in its entirety.\n\n    There was a certain merchant who was so rich that he had\n    treasures which not even the king possessed. In his audience\n    chamber there were three beautiful arm-chairs, one of silver,\n    one of gold, and one of diamonds. This merchant had an only\n    daughter of the name of Caterina, who was fairer than the sun.\n    One day Caterina sat alone in her room, when suddenly the door\n    opened of itself, and there entered a tall and beautiful lady,\n    who held a wheel in her hands. \"Caterina,\" said she, \"when\n    would you like best to enjoy your life? in youth, or in age?\"\n    Caterina gazed at her in amazement, and could not get over her\n    stupor. The beautiful lady asked again, \"Caterina, when do you\n    wish to enjoy your life in youth or in age?\" Then Caterina\n    thought, \"If I say in youth, I shall have to suffer in age;\n    hence I prefer to enjoy my life in age, and in youth I must\n    get on as the Lord wills.\" So she said, \"In age.\" \"Be it unto\n    you according to your desire,\" said the beautiful lady, who\n    gave a turn to her wheel, and disappeared. This tall and\n    beautiful lady was poor Caterina's fate. After a few days her\n    father received the sudden news that several of his ships had\n    gone down in a storm; again, after a few days, other of his\n    ships met with the same fate, and to make a long story short,\n    a month had not gone by before he saw himself despoiled of all\n    his wealth. He had to sell everything, and remained poor and\n    miserable, and finally he fell ill and died. Thus poor\n    Caterina was left alone in the world, and no one would give\n    her a home. Then she thought, \"I will go to another city and\n    will seek a place as serving-maid.\" She wandered a long way\n    till she reached another city. As she passed down the street,\n    she saw at a window a worthy-looking lady, who questioned her.\n    \"Where are you going, all alone, fair girl?\" \"Oh! noble lady,\n    I am a poor girl, and I would willingly go into service to\n    earn my bread. Could you, by chance, employ me?\" The worthy\n    lady engaged her, and Caterina served her faithfully. After a\n    few days the lady said one evening, \"Caterina, I am going out,\n    and shall lock the house-door.\" \"Very well,\" said Caterina,\n    and when her mistress was gone, she took her work and began to\n    sew. Suddenly the door opened, and her fate came in. \"So!\"\n    cried this one, \"you are here, Caterina, and you think that I\n    shall leave you in peace!\" With these words, she ran to the\n    cupboards and turned out the linen and clothes of Caterina's\n    mistress, and threw them all about the room. Caterina thought,\n    \"When my mistress returns and finds everything in such a\n    state, she will kill me!\" And out of fear she broke open the\n    door and fled. But her fate made all the things right again,\n    and gathered them up and put them in their places. When the\n    mistress came home, she called Caterina, but she could not\n    find her anywhere. She thought she must have robbed her, but\n    when she looked at her cupboards, she saw that nothing was\n    missing. She wondered greatly, but Caterina never came\n    back--she ran and ran till she reached another city, when, as\n    she passed along the street, she saw once more a lady at a\n    window, who asked her, \"Where are you going, all alone, fair\n    girl?\" \"Ah! noble lady, I am a poor girl, and I wish to find a\n    place so as to earn my bread. Could you take me?\" The lady\n    took her into her service, and Caterina thought now to remain\n    in peace. Only a few days had passed, when one evening, when\n    the lady was out, Caterina's fate appeared again, and spoke\n    hard words to her, saying, \"So you are here, are you? and you\n    think to escape from me?\" Then she scattered whatever she\n    could lay hands on, and poor Caterina once more fled out of\n    fright.\n\n    To be brief, poor Caterina had to lead this terrible life for\n    seven years, flying from city to city in search of a place.\n    Whenever she entered service, after a few days her fate always\n    appeared and disordered her mistress' things, and so the poor\n    girl had to fly. As soon as she was gone, however, her fate\n    repaired all the damage that had been done. At last, after\n    seven years, it seemed as if the unhappy Caterina's fate was\n    weary of persecuting her. One day she arrived in a city where\n    she saw a lady at a window, who said, \"Where go you, all\n    alone, fair girl?\" \"Ah! noble lady, I am a poor girl, and\n    willingly would I enter service to earn my bread; could you\n    employ me?\" The lady replied, \"I will take you, but every day\n    you will have to do me a certain service, and I am not sure\n    that you have the strength.\" \"Tell me what it is,\" said\n    Caterina, \"and if I can, I will do it.\" \"Do you see that high\n    mountain?\" said the lady; \"every morning you will have to\n    carry up to the top a baker's tray of new bread, and then you\n    must cry aloud, 'O fate of my mistress!' three times repeated.\n    My fate will appear and will receive the bread.\" \"I will do it\n    willingly,\" said Caterina, and thereupon the lady engaged her.\n    With this lady Caterina stayed many years, and every morning\n    she carried the tray of fresh bread up the mountain, and after\n    she had cried three times, \"O fate of my mistress!\" there\n    appeared a beautiful, stately lady, who received the bread.\n    Caterina often wept, thinking how she, who was once so rich,\n    had now to work like any poor girl, and one day her mistress\n    asked her, \"Why are you always crying?\" Caterina told her how\n    ill things had gone with her, and her mistress said, \"You\n    know, Caterina, when you take the bread up the mountain\n    to-morrow? Well, do you beg my fate to try and persuade yours\n    to leave you in peace. Perhaps this may do some good.\" The\n    advice pleased poor Caterina, and the following morning when\n    she carried up the bread, she told her mistress' fate of the\n    sore straits she was in, and said, \"O fate of my mistress,\n    pray ask my fate no longer to torment me.\" \"Ah! poor girl,\"\n    the fate answered, \"your fate is covered with a sevenfold\n    covering, and that is why she cannot hear you. But to-morrow\n    when you come, I will lead you to her.\" When Caterina had gone\n    home, her mistress' fate went to her fate, and said, \"Dear\n    sister, why are you not tired of persecuting poor Caterina?\n    Let her once again see happy days.\" The fate replied,\n    \"To-morrow bring her to me; I will give her something that\n    will supply all her needs.\" The next morning, when Caterina\n    brought the bread, her mistress' fate conducted her to her own\n    fate, who was covered with a sevenfold covering. The fate gave\n    her a skein of silk, and said, \"Take care of it, it will be of\n    use to you.\" After she had returned home, Caterina said to her\n    mistress, \"My fate has made me a present of a skein of silk;\n    what ought I to do with it?\" \"It is not worth three grains of\n    corn,\" said the mistress. \"Keep it, all the same; who knows\n    what it may be good for?\"\n\n    After some time, it happened that the young king was about to\n    take a wife, and, therefore, he had himself made some new\n    clothes. But when the tailor was going to make up one fine\n    piece of stuff, he could not anywhere find silk of the same\n    colour with which to sew it. The king had it cried through the\n    land, that whosoever had silk of the right colour was to bring\n    it to court, and would be well paid for his pains. \"Caterina,\"\n    said her mistress, \"your skein of silk is of that colour; take\n    it to the king and he will make you a fine present.\" Caterina\n    put on her best gown, and went to court, and when she came\n    before the king, she was so beautiful that he could not take\n    his eyes off her. \"Royal Majesty,\" she said, \"I have brought a\n    skein of silk of the colour you could not find.\" \"Royal\n    majesty,\" cried one of the ministers, \"we should give her the\n    weight of her silk in gold.\" The king agreed, and the scales\n    were brought in. On one side the king placed the skein of\n    silk, and on the other a gold piece. Now, what do you think\n    happened? The silk was always the heaviest, no matter how many\n    gold pieces the king placed in the balance. Then he ordered a\n    larger pair of scales, and he put all his treasure to the one\n    side, but the silk remained the heaviest. Then he took his\n    gold crown off his head and set it with the other treasure,\n    and upon that the two scales became even.\n\n    \"Where did you get this silk?\" asked the king. \"Royal Majesty,\n    my mistress gave it to me.\" \"That is not possible,\" cried the\n    king. \"If you do not tell me the truth I will have your head\n    cut off!\" Caterina related all that had happened to her since\n    the time when she was a rich maiden. At Court there was a very\n    wise lady, who said: \"Caterina, you have suffered much, but\n    now you will see happy days, and since the gold crown made the\n    balance even, it is a sign that you will live to be a queen.\"\n    \"She shall be a queen,\" cried the king, \"I will make her a\n    queen! Caterina and no other shall be my bride.\" And so it\n    was. The king sent to his bride to say that he no longer\n    wanted her, and married the fair Caterina, who, after much\n    suffering in youth, enjoyed her age in full prosperity, living\n    happy and content, whereof we have assured testimony.\n\nThe most suggestive passages in this ingenious story are those which\nrefer to the relative positions of a man and his fate, and of one fate\nto another. On these points something further is to be gleaned from\nan Indian, a Servian, and a Spanish tale, all having a family likeness\namongst themselves, and a strong affinity with our story. The Indian\nvariant is one of the collection due to the youthful energies of Miss\nMaive Stokes, whose book of \"Indian Fairy Tales\" is a model of\nwhat such a book ought to be. The Servian tale is to be found in\nKaradschitsch's \"Volksmaerschen der Serben;\" the Spanish in Fernan\nCaballero's \"Cuentos y Poesias Populares Andaluses.\" The chief\ncharacteristics of the personal fates, as they appear in folk-lore,\nmay be briefly summarised. In the first place, they know each other,\nand are acquainted up to a given point with one another's secrets.\nThus, in the Servian story, a man who goes to seek his fate is\ncommissioned by persons he meets on the road to ask it questions\ntouching their own private concerns. A rich householder wants to know\nwhy his servants are always hungry, however much food he gives them\nto eat, and why \"his aged, miserable father and mother do not die?\"\nA farmer would have him ask why his cattle perish; and a river, whose\nwaters bear him across, is anxious to know why no living thing dwells\nin it. The fate gives a satisfactory answer to each inquiry.\n\nThe fates exercise a certain influence, one over the other, and hence\nover the destinies of the people in their charge. Caterina's mistress'\nfate intercedes for her with her own fate. The attention of the fates\nis not always fixed on the persons under them: they may be prevented\nfrom hearing by fortuitous circumstances, such as the \"seven coverings\nor veils\" of Caterina's fate, or they may be asleep, or absent from\nhome. Their home, by the by, is invariably placed in a spot very\ndifficult to get at. In the Spanish variant, the palace of Fortune is\nraised \"where our Lord cried three times and was not heard\"--it is up\na rock so steep that not even a goat can climb it, and the sunbeams\nlose their footing when trying to reach the top. A personal fate is\npropitiated by suitable offerings, or, if obdurate, it may be brought\nto reason by a well-timed punishment. The Indian beats his fate-stone,\njust as the Ostyak beats his fetish if it does not behave well and\nbring him sport. The Sicilian story gives no hint of this alternative,\nbut it is one strictly in harmony with the Italian way of thinking,\nwhether ancient or modern. Statius' declaration:\n\n  Fataque, et injustos rabidis pulsare querelis\n  Caelicolas solamen erat ...\n\nwas frequently put into practice, as when, upon the death of\nGermanicus, the Roman populace cast stones at the temples, and the\naltars were levelled to the ground, and the Lares thrown into the\nstreet. Again, Augustus took revenge on Neptune for the loss of his\nfleet, by not allowing his image to be carried in the procession of\nthe Circensian games. It is on record that at Florence, in 1498, a\nruined gamester pelted the image of the Virgin with horse dung. Luca\nLanducci, who tells the story, says that the Florentines were shocked;\nbut in the southern kingdom the incident would have passed without\nmuch notice. The Neapolitans have hardly now left off heaping\ntorrents of abuse on San Gennaro if he fails to perform the miracle\nof liquefaction quick enough. Probably every country could furnish an\nillustration. In the grand procession of St Leonhard, the Bavarians\nused from time to time to drop the Saint into the river, as a sort of\ngentle warning.\n\nThe physical presentment of the personal fate differs considerably.\nAccording to the Indian account, \"the fates are stones, some standing,\nand others lying on the ground.\" It has been said that this looks like\na relic of stock and stone worship: which is true if it can be said\nunreservedly that anyone ever worshipped a stock or a stone.\nThe lowest stage of fetish worship only indicates a diseased\nspiritualism--a mental state in which there is no hedge between the\nreal and the imagined. No savage ever supposed that his fetish was a\nsimple three-cornered stone and nothing more. If one could guess\nthe thoughts of the pigeon mentioned by Mr Romanes as worshipping a\ngingerbeer bottle, it would be surely seen that this pigeon\nbelieved his gingerbeer bottle to be other than a piece of unfeeling\nearthenware. It is, however, a sign of progress when man begins to\npicture the ruling powers not as stones, or even as animals, but as\nmen. This point is reached in the Servian narrative, where the hero's\nfortune is a hag given to him as his luck by fate. In the Spanish\ntale, the aspect of the personal fate varies with its character: the\nfortunate man's fate is a lovely girl, the fate of the unfortunate\nman being a toothless old woman. In the _Pentamerone_ of Giambattista\nBasile, Fortune is also spoken of as an old woman, but this seems a\ndeparture from the true Italian ideal, which is neither a stone nor a\nluck-hag, nor yet a varying fair-and-foul fortune, but a \"bella, alta\nSignora:\" the imposing figure that surmounts the wheel of fortune\non the marble pavement of the Cathedral of Siena. It is a graver\nconception than the gracefully fickle goddess of Jean Cousin's \"Liber\nFortunae\":\n\n            ... On souloit la pourtraire,\n  Tenant un voile afin d'aller au gre du vent\n  Des aisles aux costez pour voler bien avant.\n\nShakespeare had the Emblematist's Fortune in his mind when he wrote:\n\"Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify\nto you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and inconstant,\nand mutability, and variation: and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a\nspherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls.\"\n\nIn hands less light than Cousin's, it was easy for the Fortune of the\nemblem writers to become grotesque, and to lose all artistic merit.\nThe Italian Fortuna does not in the least lend herself to caricature.\nIn Italy, the objects of thought, even of the common people, have\nthe tendency to assume concrete and aesthetic forms--a fact of great\nsignificance in the history of a people destined to render essential\nservice to art.\n\nThe \"tall, beautiful lady\" of the Sicilian story, reappears in a\nseries of South Italian folk-songs which contains further evidence of\nthis unconsciously artistic instinct. The Italian folk-poet, for the\nmost part, lets the lore of tradition altogether alone. It does not\nlie in his province, which is purely lyrical. But he has seized upon\nFortune as a myth very capable of lyrical treatment, and following the\nfree bent of his genius, he has woven out of his subject the delicate\nfancies of these songs. A series in the sense of being designed to\nform a consecutive whole, they, of course, are not. No two, probably,\nhad the same author; the perfect individuality of the figure\npresented, only showing how a type may be so firmly fixed that the\nmany have no difficulty in describing it with the consistency of one\nman who draws the creation of his own brain.\n\n  I.\n\n  Once in the gloaming, Fortune met me here;\n  Fair did she seem, and Love was on me laid,\n  Her hair was raised, as were it half a sphere,\n  Flowered on her breast a rose that cannot fade.\n  Then said I, \"Fortune, thou without a peer,\n  What rule shall tell the measure of thine aid?\"\n  \"The pathway of the moon through all the year,\n  The channel of the exhaustless sea,\" she said.\n\n  II.\n\n  One night, the while I slept, drew Fortune near,\n  At once I loved, such beauty she displayed;\n  A crescent moon did o'er her brows appear,\n  And in her hand a wheel that never stayed.\n  Then said I to her, \"O my mistress dear,\n  Grant all my wishes, mine if thou wilt aid.\"\n  But she turned from me with dark sullen cheer\n  And \"Never!\" as she turned, was all she said.\n\n  III.\n\n  I saw my Fortune midst the sounding sea\n  Sit weeping on a rocky height and steep,\n  Said I to her, \"Fortune, how is't with thee?\"\n  \"I cannot help thee, child\" (so answered she),\n  \"I cannot help thee more--so must I weep.\"\n  How sweet were those her tears, how sweet, ah me!\n  Even the fishes wept within the deep.\n\n  IV.\n\n  One day did Fortune call me to her side,\n  \"What are the things,\" she asked, \"that thou hast done?\"\n  Then answered I, \"Dear mistress, I have tried\n  To grave them upon marble, every one.\"\n  \"Ah! maddest of the mad!\" so she replied,\n  \"Better hadst writ on sand than wrought in stone;\n  He who to marble should his love confide,\n  Loves when he loves till all his wits are gone.\"\n\n  V.\n\n  There where I lay asleep came Fortune in,\n  She came the while I slept and bid me wake,\n  \"What dost thou now?\" she said, \"companion mine?\n  What dost thou now? Wilt thou then love forsake?\n  Arise,\" she said, \"and take this violin,\n  And play till every stone thereat shall wake.\"\n  I was asleep when Fortune came to me,\n  And bid me rise, and led me unto thee!\n\nThese songs come from different villages; from Caballino and Morciano\nin Calabria, from Corigliano and Calimera in Terra d'Otranto; the two\nlast are in the Greek dialect spoken in the latter district. There are\na great many more, in all of which the same sweet and serious type\nis preserved; but the above quintet suffices to give a notion of this\nmodern Magna-Graecian Idyll of Fortune.\n\n    [Footnote 1: In a Breton variant the \"Bon Dieu\" is the first\n    to offer himself as sponsor, but is refused by the peasant,\n    \"Because you are not just; you slay the honest bread-winner\n    and the mother whose children can scarce run alone, and you\n    let folks live who never brought aught but shame and sorrow on\n    their kindred.\" Death is accepted, \"Because at least you take\n    the rich as well as the poor, the young as well as the old.\"\n    The German tale of \"Godfather Death\" begins in the same way,\n    but ends rather differently, as it is the godson and not the\n    father who is shown the many candles, and who vainly requests\n    Death to give him a new one instead of his own which is nearly\n    burnt out. A poem by Hans Sachs (1553) contains reference to\n    the legend, of which there are also Provencal and Hungarian\n    versions.]\n\n    [Footnote 2: Laura Gonzenbach was the daughter of the Swiss\n    Consul at Messina, where she was born. At an early age she\n    developed uncommon gifts, and she was hardly twenty when she\n    made her collection of Sicilian stories, almost exclusively\n    gathered from a young servant-girl who did not know how to\n    write or read. It was with great difficulty that a publisher\n    was found who would bring out the book. Fraeulein Gonzenbach\n    married Colonel La Racine, a Piedmontese officer, and died\n    five or six years ago, being still quite young. A relation of\n    hers, from whom I have these particulars, was much surprised\n    to hear that the _Sicilianische Maerchen_ is widely known as\n    one of the best works of its class. It is somewhat singular\n    that the preservation of Italian folk-tales should have been\n    so substantially aided by two ladies not of Italian origin:\n    Fraeulein Gonzenbach and Miss R. H. Busk, author of \"The\n    Folk-lore of Rome.\"]\n\n\n\n\nFOLK-LULLABIES.\n\n       ... A nurse's song\n  Of lullaby, to bring her babe asleep.\n\n\nInfancy is a great mystery. We know that we each have gone over that\nstage in human life, though even this much is not always quite easy to\nrealise. But what else do we know about it? Something by observation,\nsomething by intuition; by experience hardly anything at all. We have\nas much personal acquaintance with a lake-dwelling or stone age infant\nas with our proper selves at the time when we were passing through the\n\"avatar\" of babyhood. The recollections of our earliest years are at\nmost only as the confused remembrance of a morning dream, which at one\nend fades into the unconsciousness of sleep, whilst at the other it\nmingles with the realities of awaking. And yet, as a fact, we did not\nsleep through all the dawn of our life, nor were we unconscious; only\nwe were different from what we now are; the term \"thinking animal\" did\nnot then fit us so well. We were less reasonable and less material.\nBabies have a way of looking at you that makes you half suspect that\nthey belong to a separate order of beings. You speculate as to whether\nthey have not invisible wings, which drop off afterwards as do the\nbirth wings of the young ant. There is one thing, however, in which\nthe baby is very human, very manlike. Of all newborn creatures he is\nthe least happy. You may sometimes see a little child crying softly\nto himself with a look of world woe on his face that is positively\nappalling. Perhaps human existence, like a new pair of shoes, is very\nuncomfortable till one gets accustomed to it. Anyhow the child, being\nfor some reason or reasons exceedingly disposed to vex its heart,\nneeds much soothing. In one highly civilised country a good many\nmothers are in the habit of going to the nearest druggist for the\nmeans to tranquillise their offspring, with the result that these\nlatter are not unfrequently rescued from the sea of sorrows in the\nmost final and expeditious way. In less advanced states of society\nanother expedient has been resorted to from time immemorial--to wit,\nthe cradle song.\n\nBabies show an early appreciation of rhythm. They rejoice in measured\nnoise, whether it takes the form of words, music, or the jingle of a\nbunch of keys. In the way of poetry I am afraid they must be admitted\nto have a perverse preference for what goes by the name of sing-song.\nIt will be a long time before the infantine public are brought round\nto Walt Whitman's views on versification. For the rest, they are not\nvery severe critics. The small ancient Roman asked for nothing better\nthan the song of his nurse--\n\n  Lalla, lalla, lalla,\n  Aut dormi, aut lacta.\n\nThis two-line lullaby constitutes one of the few but sufficing proofs\nwhich have come down to us of the existence among the people of old\nRome of a sort of folk verse not by any means resembling the Latin\nclassics, but bearing a considerable likeness to the _canti popolari_\nof the modern Italian peasant. It may be said parenthetically that\nthe study of dialect tends altogether to the conviction that there are\ncountry people now living in Italy to whom, rather than to Cicero, we\nshould go if we want to know what style of speech was in use among\nthe humbler subjects of the Caesars. The lettered language of the\ncultivated classes changes; the spoken tongue of the uneducated\nremains the same; or, if it too undergoes a process of change, the\nrate at which it moves is to the other what the pace of a tortoise\nis to the speed of an express train. About eight hundred years ago\na handful of Lombards went to Sicily, where they still preserve the\nLombard idiom. The Ober-Engadiner could hold converse with his remote\nancestors who took refuge in the Alps three or four centuries before\nChrist; the Aragonese colony at Alghero, in Sardinia, yet discourses\nin Catalan; the Roumanian language still contains terms and\nexpressions which, though dissimilar to both Latin and standard\nItalian, find their analogues in the dialects of those eastward-facing\n\"Latin plains\" whence, in all probability, the people of Roumania\nsprang. But we must return to our lullabies.\n\nThere exists another Latin cradle song, not indeed springing from\nclassical times, but which, were popular tradition to be trusted,\nwould have an origin greatly more illustrious than that of the laconic\neffusion of the Roman nurse. It is composed in the person of the\nVirgin Mary, and was, in bygone days, believed to have been actually\nsung by her. Authorities differ as to its real age, some insisting\nthat the peculiar structure of the verse was unknown before the 12th\ncentury. There is, however, good reason to think that the idea of\ncomposing lullabies for the Virgin belongs to an early period.\n\n  Dormi, fili, dormi! mater\n      Cantat unigenito:\n  Dormi puer, dormi! pater\n      Nato clamat parvulo:\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Lectum stravi tibi soli,\n      Dormi, nate bellule!\n  Stravi lectum foeno molli:\n      Dormi mi animule.\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Dormi, decus et corona!\n      Dormi, nectar lacteum!\n  Dormi, mater dabo dona,\n      Dabo favum melleum.\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Dormi, nate mi mellite!\n      Dormi plene saccharo,\n  Dormi, vita, meae vitae,\n      Casto natus utero.\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Quidquid optes, volo dare;\n      Dormi, parve pupule\n  Dormi, fili! dormi carae,\n      Matris deliciolae!\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Dormi cor, et meus thronus;\n      Dormi matris jubilum;\n  Aurium caelestis sonus,\n      Et suave sibilum!\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Dormi fili! dulce, mater\n      Duke melos concinam;\n  Dormi, nate! suave, pater,\n      Suave carmen accinam.\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Ne quid desit, sternam rosis,\n      Sternam foenum violis,\n  Pavimentum hyacinthis\n      Et praesepe liliis.\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\n  Si vis musicam, pastores\n      Convocabo protinus;\n  Illis nulli sunt priores;\n      Nemo canit castius.\n  Millies tibi laudes canimus\n      Mille, mille, millies.\n\nEverybody who is in Rome at Christmas-tide makes a point of visiting\nSanta Maria in Ara C[oe]li, the church which stands to the right of\nthe Capitol, where once the temple of Jupiter Feretrius is supposed\nto have stood. What is at that season to be seen in the Ara C[oe]li is\nwell enough known--to one side a \"presepio,\" or manger, with the ass,\nthe ox, St Joseph, the Virgin, and the Child on her knee; to the other\nside a throng of little Roman children rehearsing in their infantine\nvoices the story that is pictured opposite.[1] The scene may be taken\nas typical of the cult of the Infant Saviour, which, under one form\nor another, has existed distinct and separable from the main stem of\nChristian worship ever since a Voice in Judaea bade man seek after the\nDivine in the stable of Bethlehem. It is almost a commonplace to say\nthat Christianity brought fresh and peculiar glory alike to infancy\nand to motherhood. A new sense came into the words of the oracle--\n\n    Thee in all children, the eternal Child ...\n\nAnd the mother, sublimely though she appears against the horizon of\nantiquity, yet rose to a higher rank--because the highest--at the\nfounding of the new faith. Especially in art she left the second place\nthat she might take the first. The sentiment of maternal love, as\nillustrated, as transfigured, in the love of the Virgin for her Divine\nChild, furnished the great Italian painters with their master motive,\nwhilst in his humble fashion the obscure folk-poet exemplifies the\nselfsame thought. I am not sure that the rude rhymes of which the\nfollowing is a rendering do not convey, as well as can be conveyed in\narticulate speech, the glory and the grief of the Dresden Madonna:\n\n  Sleep, oh sleep, dear Baby mine,\n                   King Divine;\n  Sleep, my Child, in sleep recline;\n  Lullaby, mine Infant fair,\n                   Heaven's King\n                   All glittering,\n  Full of grace as lilies rare.\n\n  Close thine eyelids, O my treasure,\n                   Loved past measure,\n  Of my soul, the Lord, the pleasure;\n  Lullaby, O regal Child,\n                   On the hay\n                   My joy I lay;\n  Love celestial, meek and mild.\n\n  Why dost weep, my Babe? alas!\n                   Cold winds that pass\n  Vex, or is 't the little ass?\n  Lullaby, O Paradise;\n                   Of my heart\n                   Though Saviour art;\n  On thy face I press a kiss.\n\n  Wouldst thou learn so speedily,\n                   Pain to try,\n                   To heave a sigh?\n  Sleep, for thou shalt see the day\n                   Of dire scath,\n                   Of dreadful death,\n  To bitter scorn and shame a prey.\n\n  Rays now round thy brow extend,\n                   But in the end\n  A crown of cruel thorns shall bend.\n  Lullaby, O little one,\n                   Gentle guest\n                   Who for thy rest\n  A manger hast, to lie upon.\n\n  Born in winter of the year,\n                   Jesu dear,\n  As the lost world's prisoner.\n  Lullaby (for thou art bound\n                   Pain to know,\n                   And want and woe),\n  Mid the cattle standing round.\n\n  Beauty mine, sleep peacefully;\n                   Heaven's monarch! see,\n  With my veil I cover thee.\n  Lullaby, my Spouse, my Lord,\n                   Fairest Child\n                   Pure, undefiled,\n  Thou by all my soul adored.\n\n  Lo! the shepherd band draws nigh;\n                   Horns they ply\n  Thee their Lord to glorify.\n  Lullaby, my soul's delight,\n                   For Israel,\n                   Faithless and fell,\n  Thee with cruel death would smite.\n\n  Now the milk suck from my breast,\n                   Holiest, best,\n  Thy kind eyes thou openest.\n  Lullaby, the while I sing;\n                   Holy Jesu\n                   Now sleep anew,\n  My mantle is thy sheltering.\n\n  Sleep, sleep, thou who dost heaven impart\n                   My Lord thou art;\n  Sleep, as I press thee to my heart.\n  Poor the place where thou dost lie,\n                   Earth's loveliest!\n                   Yet take thy rest;\n  Sleep my Child, and lullaby.\n\nIt would be interesting to know if Mrs Browning ever heard any one of\nthe many variants of this lullaby before writing her poem \"The Virgin\nMary to the Child Jesus.\" The version given above was communicated to\nme by a resident at Vallauria, in the heart of the Ligurian Alps. In\nthat district it is sung in the churches on Christmas Eve, when out\nabroad the mountains sleep soundly in their snows and a stray wolf\nis not an impossible apparition, nothing reminding you that you are\nwithin a day's journey of the citron groves of Mentone.\n\nThere are several old English carols which bear a strong resemblance\nto the Italian sacred lullabies. One, current at least as far back as\nthe time of Henry IV., is preserved among the Sloane MSS.:\n\n  Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere fode,\n  How xalt thou sufferin be nayled on the rode.\n                           So blyssid be the tyme!\n\n  Lullay! lullay! lytel child, myn owyn dere smerte,\n  How xalt thou sufferin the scharp spere to Thi herte?\n                           So blyssid be the tyme!\n\n  Lullay! lullay! lytel child, I synge all for Thi sake,\n  Many on is the scharpe schour to Thi body is schape.\n                           So blyssid be the tyme!\n\n  Lullay! lullay! lytel child, fayre happis the befalle,\n  How xalt thou sufferin to drynke ezyl and galle?\n                           So blyssid be the tyme!\n\n  Lullay! lullay! lytel child, I synge al beforn\n  How xalt thou sufferin the scharp garlong of thorn?\n                           So blyssid be the tyme!\n\n  Lullay! lullay! lytel child, gwy wepy Thou so sore,\n  Thou art bothin God and man, gwat woldyst Thou be more?\n                           So blyssid be the tyme!\n\nHere, as in the Piedmontese song, the \"shadow of the cross\" makes its\npresence distinctly felt, whereas in the Latin lullaby it is wholly\nabsent. Nor are there any dark or sad forebodings in the fragment:\n\n    Dormi Jesu, mater ridet,\n  Quae; tam dulcem somnum videt,\n    Dormi, Jesu blandule.\n    Si non dormis, mater plorat,\n    Inter fila cantans orat:\n    Blande, veni Somnule.\n\nMany Italian Christmas cradle songs are in this lighter strain.\nIn Italy and Spain a _presepio_ or _nacimento_ is arranged in\nold-fashioned houses on the eve of Christmas, and all kinds of songs\nare sung or recited before the white image of the Child as it lies in\nits bower of greenery. \"Flower of Nazareth sleep upon my breast, my\nheart is thy cradle,\" sing the Tuscans, who curiously call Christmas\n\"the Yule-log Easter.\" In Sicily a thousand endearing epithets are\napplied to the Infant Saviour: \"figghiu duci,\" \"Gesiuzzi beddu,\"\n\"Gesiuzzi picchiureddi.\" The Sicilian poet relates how once, when the\nMadunazza was mending St Joseph's clothes, the Bambineddu cried in His\ncradle because no one was attending to Him; so the archangel Raphael\ncame down and rocked Him, and said three sweet little words to Him,\n\"Lullaby, Jesus, Son of Mary!\" Another time, when the Child was older\nand the mother was going to visit St Anne, he wept because He wished\nto go too. The mother let Him accompany her on condition that He would\nnot break St Anne's bobbins. Yet another time the Virgin went to the\nfair to buy flax, and the Child said that He too would like to have\na fairing. The Virgin buys Him a tambourine, and angels descend to\nlisten to His playing. Such stories are endless; some, no doubt, are\ninvented on the spur of the moment, but the larger portion are scraps\nof old legendary lore. Not a few of the popular beliefs, relating to\nthe Infant Jesus may be traced to the apocryphal Gospels, which were\nextensively circulated during the earlier Christian centuries.\nThere is, for instance, a Provencal song containing the legend of an\napple-tree that bowed its branches to the Virgin, which is plainly\nderived from this source. Speaking of Provence, one ought not to\nforget the famous \"Troubadour of Bethlehem,\" Saboly, who was born in\n1640, and who composed more than sixty _noels_. Five pretty lines of\nhis form an epitome of sacred lullabies:\n\n  Faudra dire, faudra dire,\n    Quauco cansoun,\n      Au garcoun,\n        A la facoun\n  D'aquelo de _soum-soum_.\n\nGeorge Wither deserves remembrance here for what he calls a \"Rocking\nhymn,\" written about the year of Saboly's birth. \"Nurses,\" he says,\n\"usually sing their children asleep, and through want of pertinent\nmatter they oft make use of unprofitable, if not worse, songs; this\nwas therefore prepared that it might help acquaint them and their\nnurse children with the loving care and kindness of their Heavenly\nFather.\" Consciously or unconsciously, Wither caught the true spirit\nof the ancient carols in the verses--charming in spite, or perhaps\nbecause of their demure simplicity--which follow his little exordium:\n\n  Sweet baby, sleep: what ails my dear;\n  What ails my darling thus to cry?\n  Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,\n  To hear me sing thy lullaby.\n      My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;\n      Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.\n\n  Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?\n  What thing to thee can mischief do?\n  Thy God is now thy Father dear,\n  His holy Spouse thy mother too.\n      Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;\n      Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep....\n\n  Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing,\n  For thee great blessings ripening be;\n  Thine eldest brother is a king,\n  And hath a kingdom bought for thee.\n      Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;\n      Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. &c., &c.\n\nCount Gubernatis, in his \"Usi Natalizj,\" quotes a popular Spanish\nlullaby, addressed to any ordinary child, but having reference to the\nHoly Babe:\n\n  The Baby Child of Mary,\n    Now cradle He has none;\n  His father is a carpenter,\n    And he shall make Him one.\n\n  The lady good St Anna,\n    The lord St Joachim,\n  They rock the Baby's cradle,\n    That sleep may come to Him.\n\n  Then sleep thou too, my baby,\n    My little heart so dear;\n  The Virgin is beside thee,\n    The Son of God is near.\n\nWhen they are old enough to understand the meaning of words, children\nare sure to be interested up to a certain point by these saintly\nfables, but, taken as a whole, the songs of the South give us the\nimpression that the coming of Christmas kindles the imagination of the\nSouthern mother rather than that of the Southern child. On the north\nside of the Alps it is otherwise; there is scarcely need to say that\nin the Vaterland, Christmas is before all the children's feast. We,\nwho have borrowed many of the German yule-tide customs, have left out\nthe \"Christkind;\" and it is well that we have done so. Transplanted\nto foreign soil, that poetic piece of extra-belief would have become a\nmockery. As soon try to naturalise Kolyada, the Sclavonic white-robed\nNew-year girl. The Christkind in His mythical attributes is nearer to\nKolyada than to the Italian Bambinello. He belongs to the people, not\nto the Church. He is not swathed in jewelled swaddling clothes; His\nlimbs are free, and He has wings that carry Him wheresoever good\nchildren abide. There is about Him all the dreamy charm of lands where\ntwilight is long and shade and shine intermingle softly, and where the\nearth's wintry winding-sheet is more beautiful than her April bride\ngown. The most popular of German lullabies is a truly Teutonic mixture\nof piety, wonder-lore, and homeliness. Wagner has introduced the\nmusic to which it is sung into his \"Siegfried-Idyl.\" I have to thank a\nHeidelberg friend for the text:\n\n  Sleep, baby, sleep:\n  Your father tends the sheep;\n          Your mother shakes the branches small,\n          Whence happy dreams in showers fall:\n  Sleep, baby, sleep.\n\n  Sleep, baby, sleep:\n  The sky is full of sheep;\n          The stars the lambs of heaven are,\n          For whom the shepherd moon doth care:\n  Sleep, baby, sleep.\n\n  Sleep, baby, sleep:\n  The Christ Child owns a sheep;\n          He is Himself the Lamb of God;\n          The world to save, to death He trod:\n  Sleep, baby, sleep.\n\n  Sleep, baby, sleep:\n  I'll give you then a sheep\n          With pretty bells, and you shall play\n          And frolic with him all the day:\n  Sleep, baby, sleep.\n\n  Sleep, baby, sleep:\n  And do not bleat like sheep,\n          Or else the shepherd's dog will bite\n          My naughty, little, crying spright:\n  Sleep, baby, sleep.\n\n  Sleep, baby, sleep:\n  Begone, and watch the sheep,\n          You naughty little dog! Begone,\n          And do not wake my little one:\n  Sleep, baby, sleep.\n\nIn Denmark children are sung to sleep with a cradle hymn which is\nbelieved (so I am informed by a youthful correspondent) to be \"very\nold.\" It has seven stanzas, of which the first runs, \"Sleep sweetly,\nlittle child; lie quiet and still; as sweetly sleep as the bird in the\nwood, as the flowers in the meadow. God the Father has said,\n'Angels stand on watch where mine, the little ones, are in bed.'\" A\ncorrespondent at Warsaw (still more youthful) sends me the even-song\nof Polish children:\n\n  The stars shine forth from the blue sky;\n    How great and wondrous is God's might;\n  Shine, stars, through all eternity,\n    His witness in the night.\n\n  O Lord, Thy tired children keep:\n    Keep us who know and feel Thy might;\n  Turn Thine eye on us as we sleep,\n    And give us all good-night.\n\n  Shine, stars, God's sentinels on high,\n    Proclaimers of His power and might;\n  May all things evil from us fly:\n    O stars, good-night, good-night!\n\nIs this \"Dobra Noc\" of strictly popular origin? From internal evidence\nI should say that it is not. It seems, however, to be extremely\npopular in the ordinary sense of the word. Before me lie two or three\nsettings of it by Polish musicians.\n\nThe Italians call lullabies _ninne-nanne_, a term used by Dante when\nhe makes Forese predict the ills which are to overtake the dames of\nFlorence:\n\n  E se l'anteveder qui non m' inganna,\n          Prima fien triste che le guance impeli\n          Colui che mo si consola con _nanna_.\n\nSome etymologists have sought to connect \"nanna\" with _neniae_ or\n[Greek: nenitos], but its most apparent relationship is with [Greek:\nnannarismata], the modern Greek name for cradle songs, which is\nderived from a root signifying the singing of a child to sleep.\nThe _ninne-nanne_ of the various Italian provinces are to be found\nscattered here and there through volumes of folk poesy, and no attempt\nhas yet been made to collate and compare them. Signor Dal Medico did\nindeed publish, some ten years ago, a separate collection of Venetian\nnursery rhymes, but his initiative has not been followed up. The\ndifficulty I had in obtaining the little work just mentioned is\ncharacteristic of the way in which Italian printed matter vanishes\nout of all being; instead of passing into the obscure but secure limbo\ninto which much of English literature enters, it attains nothing\nshort of Nirv[=a]na--a happy state of non-existence. The inquiries of\nseveral Italian book-sellers led to no other conclusion than that the\nbook in question was not to be had for love or money; and most likely\nI should still have been waiting for it were it not for the courtesy\nof the Baron Giovanni di Sardagna, who, on hearing that it was wanted\nby a student of folk-lore, borrowed from the author the only copy in\nhis possession and made therefrom a verbatim transcript. The following\nis one of Signor Dal Medico's lullabies:\n\n  Hush! lulla, lullaby! So mother sings;\n  For hearken, 'tis the midnight bell that rings.\n  But, darling, not thy mother's bell is this:\n  St Lucy's priests it calls to prayer, I wis.\n  St Lucy gave thee eyes--a matchless pair--\n  And gave the Magdalen her golden hair;\n  Thy cheeks their hue from heaven's angels have;\n  Her little loving mouth St Martha gave.\n  Love's mouth, sweet mouth, that Florence hath for home,\n  Now tell me where love springs, and how doth come?...\n  With music and with song doth love arise,\n  And then its end it hath in tears and sighs.\n\nThe question and answer as to the beginning and end of love run\nthrough all the songs of Italy, and in nearly every case the reply\nproceeds from Florence. The personality of the answerer changes:\nsometimes it is a little wild bird; on one occasion it is a preacher.\nAnd the idea has been suggested that the last is the original form,\nand that the Preacher of Florence who preaches against love is none\nother than Jeronimo Savonarola.\n\nIn an Istriot variant of the above song, \"Santa Luceia\" is spoken of\nas the Madonna of the eyes; \"Santa Puluonia\" as the Madonna of the\nteeth: we hear also something of the Magdalene's old shoes and of the\nwhite lilies she bears in her hands. It is not always quite clear\nupon what principle the folk-poet shapes his descriptions of religious\npersonages; if the gifts and belongings he attributes to them are\nat times purely conventional, at others they seem to rest on no\nauthority, legendary or historic. Most likely his ideas as to\nthe personal appearance of such or such a saint are formed by the\npaintings in the church where he is accustomed to go to mass; it\nis probable, too, that he is fond of talking of the patrons of his\nvillage or of the next village, whose names are associated with the\n_feste_, which as long as he can recollect have constituted the great\nannual events of his life. But two or three saints have a popularity\nindependent of local circumstance. One of these is Lucy, whom the\npeople celebrate with equal enthusiasm from her native Syracuse to the\nport of Pola. Perhaps the maiden patroness of the blessed faculty of\nvision has come to be thought of as a sort of gracious embodiment\nof that which her name signifies: of the sweet light which to the\nsoutherner is not a mere helpmate in the performance of daily tasks,\nbut a providential luxury. Concerning the earthly career of their\nfavourite, her peasant votaries have vague notions: once when a\nFrench traveller in the Apennines suggested that St Januarius might be\njealous of her praises, he received the answer, \"_Ma che, excellenza_,\nSt Lucy was St Januarius' wife!\"\n\nIn Greece we find other saints invoked over the baby's cradle. The\nGreek of modern times has his face, his mind, his heart, set in an\nundeviating eastward position. To holy wisdom and to Marina, the\nAlexandrian martyr, the Greek mother confides her cradled darling:\n\n    Put him to bed, St Marina; send him to sleep, St Sophia! Take\n    him out abroad that he may see how the trees flower and how\n    the birds sing; then come back and bring him with you, that\n    his father may not ask for him, may not beat his servants,\n    that his mother may not seek him in vain, for she would weep\n    and fall sick, and her milk would turn bitter.\n\nAt Gessopalena, in the province of Chieti (Abruzzo Citeriore) there\nwould seem to be much faith in numbers. Luke and Andrew, Michael and\nJoseph, Hyacinth and Matthew are called in, and as if these were not\nenough to nurse one baby, a summons is sent to _Sant Giusaffat_, who,\nas is well known, is neither more nor less than Buddha introduced into\nthe Catholic calendar.\n\nAnother of Signor Dal Medico's _ninne-nanne_ presents several points\nof interest:\n\n  O Sleep, O Sleep, O thou beguiler, Sleep,\n  Beguile this child, and in beguilement keep,\n  Keep him three hours, and keep him moments three;\n  Until I call beguile this child for me.\n  And when I call I'll call:--My root, my heart,\n  The people say my only wealth thou art.\n  Thou art my only wealth; I tell thee so.\n  Now, bit by bit, this boy to sleep will go;\n  He falls and falls to sleeping bit by bit,\n  Like the green wood what time the fire is lit,\n  Like to green wood that never flame can dart,\n  Heart of thy mother, of thy father heart!\n  Like to green wood, that never flame can shoot.\n  Sleep thou, my cradled hope, sleep thou, my root,\n  My cradled hope, my spirit's strength and stay;\n  Mother, who bore thee, wears her life away;\n  Her life she wears away, and all day long\n  She goes a-singing to her child this song.\n\nNow, in the first place, the comparison of the child's gradual falling\nasleep with the slow ignition of fresh-cut wood is the common property\nof all the populations whose ethnical centre of gravity lies in\nVenice. I have seen an Istriot version of it, and I heard it sung by a\ncountrywoman at San Martino di Castrozza in the Trentino; so that, at\nall event, _Italia redenta_ and _irredenta_ has a community of song.\nThe second thing that calls for remark is the direct invocation\nof sleep. A distinct little group of cradle ditties displays this\ncharacteristic. \"Come, sleep,\" cries the Grecian mother, \"come, sleep,\ntake him away; come sleep, and make him slumber. Carry him to the\nvineyard of the Aga, to the gardens of the Aga. The Aga will give\nhim grapes; his wife, roses; his servant, pancakes.\" A second Greek\nlullaby must have sprung from a luxuriant imagination. It comes from\nSchio:\n\n  Sleep, carry off my son, o'er whom three sentinels do watch,\n  Three sentinels, three warders brave, three mates you cannot match.\n  These guards: the sun upon the hill, the eagle on the plain,\n  And Boreas, whose chilly blasts do hurry o'er the main.\n  --The sun went down into the west, the eagle sank to sleep,\n  Chill Boreas to his mother sped across the briny deep.\n  \"My son, where were you yesterday? Where on the former night?\n  Or with the moon or with the stars did you contend in fight?\n  Or with Orion did you strive--though him I deem a friend?\"\n  \"Nor with the stars, nor with the moon, did I in strife contend,\n  Nor with Orion did I fight, whom for your friend I hold,\n  But guarded in a silver cot a child as bright as gold.\"\n\nThe Greeks have a curious way of looking at sleep: they seem absorbed\nin the thought of what dreams may come--if indeed the word dream\nrightly describes their conception of that which happens to the soul\nwhile the body takes its rest--if they do not rather cling to some\nvague notion of a real severance between matter and spirit during\nsleep.\n\nThe mothers of La Bresse (near Lyons) invoke sleep under the name of\n\"le souin-souin.\" I wish I could give here the sweet, inedited melody\nwhich accompanies these lines:\n\n  Le poupon voudrait bien domir;\n  Le souin-souin ne veut pas venir.\n  Souin-souin, vene, vene, vene;\n  Souin-souin, vene, vene, donc!\n\nThe Chippewaya Indians were in the habit of personifying sleep as an\nimmense insect called Weeng, which someone once saw at the top of a\ntree engaged in making a buzzing noise with its wings. Weeng produced\nsleep by sending fairies, who beat the foreheads of tired mortals with\nvery small clubs.\n\nSleep acts the part of questioner in the lullaby of the Finland\npeasant woman, who sings to her child in its bark cradle: \"Sleep,\nlittle field bird; sleep sweetly, pretty redbreast. God will wake thee\nwhen it is time. Sleep is at the door, and says to me, 'Is not there\na sweet child here who fain would sleep? a young child wrapped\nin swaddling clothes, a fair child resting beneath his woollen\ncoverlet?'\" A questioning sleep makes his appearance likewise in a\nSicilian _ninna_:--\n\n  My little son, I wish you well, your mother's comfort when in grief.\n  My pretty boy, what can I do? Will you not give one hour's relief?\n  Sleep has just past, and me he asked if this my son in slumber lay.\n  Close, close your little eyes, my child; send your sweet breath far\n            leagues away.\n  You are the fount of rose water; you are with every beauty fraught.\n  Sleep, darling son, my pretty one, my golden button richly wrought.\n\nA vein of tender reproach is sprung in that inquiry, \"Ca n' ura ri\nriposu 'un vuo rari?\" The mother appeals to the better feeling, to\nthe Christian charity as it were, of the small but implacable tyrant.\nAnother time she waxes yet more eloquent. \"Son, my comfort, I am not\nhappy. There are women who laugh and enjoy themselves while I chafe my\nvery life out. Listen to me, child; beautiful is the lullaby and all\nthe folk are asleep--but thou, no! My wise little son, I look about\nfor thy equal; nowhere do I find him. Thou art mamma's consolation.\nThere, do sleep just a little while.\" So pleads the Sicilian; her\nVenetian sister tries to soften the obduracy of her infant by still\nmore plaintive remonstrances. \"Hushaby; but if thou dost not sleep,\nhear me. Thou hast robbed me of my heart and of all my sentiments. I\nreally do not know for what cause thou lamentest, and never will have\ndone lamenting.\" On this occasion the appeal seems to be made to some\npurpose, for the song concludes, \"The eyes of my joy are closing; they\nopen a little and then they shut. Now is my joy at peace with me and\nno longer at war.\" So happy an issue does not always arrive. It may\nhappen that the perverse babe flatly refuses to listen to the mother's\nvoice, sing she never so sweetly. Perhaps he might have something\nto say for himself could he but speak, at any rate in the matter of\nmid-day slumbers. It must no doubt be rather trying to be called upon\nto go straight to sleep just when the sunbeams are dancing round and\nround and wildly inviting you to make your first studies in optics.\nMost often the long-suffering mother, if she does not see things in\nthis light, acts as though she did. Her patience has no limit; her\ncaresses are never done; with untiring love she watches the little\nwakeful, wilful culprit--\n\n  Chi piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia....\n\nBut it is not always so; there are times when she loses all patience,\nand temper into the bargain. Such a contingency is only too faithfully\nreflected in a Sicilian _ninna_ which ends with the utterance of a\nhorrible wish that Doctor Death would come and quiet the recalcitrant\nbaby once for all. I ought to add that this same murderous lullaby is\nnevertheless brimful of protestations of affection and compliments;\nthe child is told that his eyes are the finest imaginable, his cheeks\ntwo roses, his countenance like the moon's. The amount of incense\nwhich the Sicilian mother burns before her offspring would suffice\nto fill any number of cathedrals. Every moment she breaks forth into\nwords such as, \"Hush! child of my breath, bunch of jasmine, handful of\noranges and lemons; go to sleep, my son, my beauty: I have got to take\nthy portrait.\" It has been remarked that a person who resembled an\norange would scarcely be very attractive, whence it is inferred that\nthe comparison came into fashion at the date when the orange tree was\nfirst introduced into Sicily and when its fruit was esteemed a rare\nnovelty. A little girl is described as a spray of lilies and a bouquet\nof roses. A little boy is assured that his mother prefers him to gold\nor fine silver. If she lost him where would she find a beloved son\nlike to him? A child dropped out of heaven, a laurel garland, one\nunder whose feet spring up flowers? Here is a string of blandishments\nprettily wound up in a prayer:\n\n  Hush, my little round-faced daughter; thou art like the stormy sea.\n  Daughter mine of finest amber, godmother sends sleep to thee.\n  Fair thy name, and he who gave it was a gallant gentleman.\n  Mirror of my soul, I marvel when thy loveliness I scan.\n  Flame of love, be good. I love thee better far than life I love.\n  Now my child sleeps. Mother Mary, look upon her from above.\n\nThe form taken by parental flattery shows the tastes of nations and of\nindividuals. The other day a young and successful English artist was\nheard to exclaim with profound conviction, whilst contemplating his\nson and heir, twenty-four hours old, \"There is a great deal of _tone_\nabout that baby!\"\n\nThe Hungarian nurse tells her charge that his cot must be of rosewood\nand his swaddling clothes of rainbow threads spun by angels. The\nevening breeze is to rock him, the kiss of the falling star to awake\nhim; she would have the breath of the lily touch him gently, and the\nbutterflies fan him with their brilliant wings. Like the Sicilian, the\nMagyar has an innate love of splendour.\n\nCorsica has a _ninna-nanna_ into which the whole genius of its people\nseems to have passed. The village, _fetes_, with dancing and music,\nthe flocks and herds and sheep-dogs, even the mountains, stars, and\nsea, and the perfumed air off the _macchi_, come back to the traveller\nin that island as he reads--\n\n  Hushaby, my darling boy;\n  Hushaby, my hope and joy.\n  You're my little ship so brave\n  Sailing boldly o'er the wave;\n  One that tempests doth not fear,\n  Nor the winds that blow from high.\n  Sleep awhile, my baby dear;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n  Gold and pearls my vessel lade,\n  Silk and cloth the cargo be,\n  All the sails are of brocade\n  Coming from beyond the sea;\n  And the helm of finest gold,\n  Made a wonder to behold.\n  Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n  After you were born full soon\n  You were christened all aright;\n  Godmother she was the moon,\n  Godfather the sun so bright;\n  All the stars in heaven told\n  Wore their necklaces of gold.\n  Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n  Pure and balmy was the air,\n  Lustrous all the heavens were;\n  And the seven planets shed\n  All their virtues on your head;\n  And the shepherds made a feast\n  Lasting for a week at least.\n  Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n  Nought was heard but minstrelsy,\n  Nought but dancing met the eye,\n  In Cassoni's vale and wood\n  And in all the neighbourhood;\n  Hawk and Blacklip, stanch and true,\n  Feasted in their fashion too.\n  Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n  Older years when you attain,\n  You will roam o'er field and plain;\n  Meadows will with flowers be gay,\n  And with oil the fountains play,\n  And the salt and bitter sea\n  Into balsam changed be.\n  Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n  And these mountains, wild and steep,\n  Will be crowded o'er with sheep,\n  And the wild goat and the deer\n  Will be tame and void of fear;\n  Vulture, fox, and beast of prey,\n  From these bounds shall flee away.\n  Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\n  You are savory, sweetly blowing,\n  You are thyme, of incense smelling,\n  Upon Mount Basella growing,\n  Upon Mount Cassoni dwelling;\n  You the hyacinth of the rocks\n  Which is pasture for the flocks.\n  Fast awhile in slumber lie;\n  Sleep, my child, and hushaby.\n\nAt the sight of a new-born babe the Corsican involuntarily sets to\nwork making auguries. The mountain shepherds place great faith in\ndivination based on the examination of the shoulder-blades of animals:\naccording to the local tradition the famous prophecy of the greatness\nof Napoleon was drawn up after this method. The nomad tribes of\nCentral Asia search the future in precisely the same way. Corsican\nlullabies are often prophetical. An old woman predicts a strange sort\nof millennium, to begin with the coming of age of her grandson:\n\n    \"There grew a boy in Palneca of Pumonti, and his dear\n    grandmother was always rocking his cradle, always wishing him\n    this destiny:--\n\n    \"Sleep, O little one, thy grandmother's joy and gladness, for\n    I have to prepare the supper for thy dear little father, and\n    thy elder brothers, and I have to make their clothes.\n\n    \"When thou art older, thou wilt traverse the plains, the grass\n    will turn to flowers, the sea-water will become sweet balm.\n\n    \"We will make thee a jacket edged with red and turned up in\n    points, and a little peaked hat, trimmed with gold braid.\n\n    \"When thou art bigger, thou wilt carry arms; neither soldier\n    nor gendarme will frighten thee, and if thou art driven up\n    into a corner, thou wilt make a famous bandit.\n\n    \"Never did woman of our race pass thirteen years unwed, for\n    when an impertinent fellow dared so much as look at her, he\n    escaped not two weeks unless he gave her the ring.\n\n    \"But that scoundrel of Morando surprised the kinsfolk,\n    arrested them all in one day, and wrought their ruin. And the\n    thieves of Palneca played the spy.\n\n    \"Fifteen men were hung, all in the market-place: men of great\n    worth, the flower of our race. Perhaps it will be thou, O\n    dearest! who shall accomplish the vendetta!\"\n\nAn unexpected yet logical development leads from the peaceful\nhousehold cares, the joyous images of the familiar song, the playful\npicture of the baby boy in jacket and pointed hat, to a terrible\nrecollection of deeds of shame and blood, long past, and perhaps\nhalf-forgotten by the rest of the family, but at which the old dame's\nbreast still burns as she rocks the sleeping babe on whom is fixed her\nlast passionate hope of vengeance fulfilled.\n\nIn the mountain villages scattered about the borders of the vast Sila\nforest, Calabrian mothers whisper to their babes, \"brigantiellu miu,\nbrigantiellu della mamma.\" They tell the little ones gathered round\ntheir knees legends of Fra Diavolo and of Talarico, just as Sardinian\nmothers tell the legend of Tolu of Florinas. This last is a story\nof to-day. In 1850, Giovanni Tolu married the niece of the priest's\nhousekeeper. The priest opposed the marriage, and soon after it had\ntaken place, in the absence of Tolu, he persuaded the young wife to\nleave her husband's house, never to return. Tolu, meeting his enemy\nin a lonely path, fired his pistol, but by some accident it did not\ngo off, and the priest escaped with his life. Arrest and certain\nconviction, however, awaited Tolu, who preferred to take to the\nwoods, where he remained for thirty years, a prince among outlaws.\nHe protected the weak; administered a rude but wise justice to the\nscattered peasants of the waste country between Sassari and the sea;\nhis swift horse was always ready to fly in search of their lost or\nstolen cattle; his gun was the terror of the thieves who preyed upon\nthese poor people. In Osilo lived two families, hereditary foes, the\nStacca and the Achena. An Achena offered Tolu five hundred francs to\nkill the head of the Stacca family. Tolu not only refused, he did\nnot rest till he had brought about a reconciliation between the two\nhouses. At last, in the autumn of 1880, the gendarmes, after thirty\nyears' failure, arrested Tolu without a struggle at a place where he\nhad gone to take part in a country _festa_. For two years he was kept\nuntried in prison. In September 1882 he was brought before the Court\nof Assize at Frosinone. Not a witness could be found to testify\nagainst him. \"Tolu,\" they said, \"e un Dio.\" When asked by the\nPresident what he had to say in his defence, he replied: \"I never\nfired first. The carabineers hunted me like a wild beast, because a\nprice was set on my head, and like a wild beast I defended myself.\"\nThe jury brought in a verdict of acquittal; and if any one wishes to\nmake our hero's acquaintance, he has only to take ship for Sardinia\nand then find the way to the village of Florinas, where he is now\npeaceably living, beloved and respected by all who know him.\n\nThe Sardinian character has old-world virtues and old-world blemishes;\nif you live in the wilder districts you may deem it advisable to keep\na loaded pistol on the table at meal-time; but then you may go all\nover the island without letters of introduction, sure of a hearty\nwelcome, and an hospitality which gives to the stranger the best\nof everything that there is. If the Sardinian has an imperfect\napprehension of the sacredness of other laws, he is blindly obedient\nto that of custom; when some progressive measure is proposed, he does\nnot argue--he says quietly: \"Custu non est secundu la moda nostra.\"\nNo man sweeps the dust on antique time less than he. One of his\ndistinctive traits is an overweening fondness of his children; the\never-marvellous baby is represented not only as the glory of its\nmother, but also as the light even of its most distant connexions--\n\n  Lullaby, sweet lullaby,\n  You our happiness supply;\n  Fair your face, and sweet your ways,\n  You, your mother's pride and praise.\n  As the coral, rare and bright,\n  In your life does father live;\n  You, of all the dear delight,\n  All around you pleasure give.\n\n  All your ways, my pretty boy,\n  Of your parents are the joy;\n  You were born for good alone,\n  Sunshine of the family!\n  Wise, and kind to every one.\n  Light of every kinsman's eye;\n  Light of all who hither come,\n  And the gladness of our home.\n                Lullaby, sweet lullaby.\n\nOn the northern shore the people speak a tongue akin to that of the\nneighbouring isle, and the dialect of the south is semi-Spanish; but\nin the midland Logudoro the old Sard speech is spoken much as it is\nknown to have been spoken a thousand years ago. It is simply a rustic\nLatin. Canon Spano's loving rather than critical labours have left\nSardinia a fine field for some future folk-lore collector. The\nSardinian is short in speech, copious in song. I asked a lad, just\nreturned to Venetia from working in Sardinian quarries, if the people\nthere had many songs? \"Oh! tanti!\" he answered, with a gesture more\nexpressive than the words. He had brought back more than a touch of\nthat malarious fever which is the scourge of the island and a blight\nupon all efforts to develop its rich resources. A Sardinian friend\ntells me that the Sard poet often shows a complete contempt for\nmetrical rules; his poesy is apt to become a rhythmic chant of which\nthe words and music cannot be dissevered. But the Logudorian\nlullabies are regular in form, their distinguishing feature being an\ninterjection with an almost classical ring that replaces the _fa la\nnanna_ of Italy--\n\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      Sleep, baby boy;\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      God give thee joy.\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      Sweet joy be thine;\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      Sleep, brother mine.\n\n  Sleep, and do not cry,\n      Pretty, pretty one,\n  Apple of mine eye,\n      Danger there is none;\n  Sleep, for I am by,\n      Mother's darling son.\n\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      Sleep, baby boy;\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      God give thee joy.\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      Sweet joy be thine;\n  Oh! ninna and anninia!\n      Sleep, brother mine.\n\nThe singer is the little mother-sister: the child who, while the\nmother works in the fields or goes to market, is left in charge of the\nlast-come member of the family, and is bound to console it as best\nshe may, for the absence of its natural guardian. The baby is to her\nsomewhat of a doll, just as to the children of the rich the doll is\nsomewhat of a baby. She may be met without going far afield; anyone\nwho has lived near an English village must know the curly-headed\nlittle girl who sits on the cottage door-step or among the meadow\nbuttercups, her arms stretched at full length, round a soft,\nblack-eyed creature, small indeed, yet not much smaller than herself.\nThis, she solemnly informs you, is her baby. Not quite so often can\nshe be seen now as before the passing of the Education Act, prior to\nwhich all truants fell back on the triumphant excuse, \"I can't go\nto school because I have to mind my baby,\" some neighbouring infant\nbrother, cousin, nephew, being producible at a moment's notice in\nsupport of the assertion. In those days the mere sight of a baby\nfilled persons interested in the promotion of public instruction with\nwrath and suspicion. Yet womanhood would lose a sweet and sympathetic\nphase were the little mother-sister to wholly disappear. The songs\nof the child-nurse are of the slenderest kind; the tether of her\nimagination has not been cut by hope or memory. As a rule she dwells\nupon the important fact that mother will soon be here, and when she\nhas said that, she has not much more to say. So it is in an Istriot\nsong: \"This is a child who is always crying; be quiet, my soul, for\nmother is coming back; she will bring thee nice milk, and then she\nwill put thee in the crib to hushaby.\" A Tuscan correspondent sends\nme a sister-rhyme which is introduced by a pretty description of\nthe grave-eyed little maiden, of twelve or thirteen years perhaps,\nresponsible almost to sadness, who leans down her face over the baby\nbrother she is rocking in the cradle; and when he stirs and begins to\ncry, sings softly the oft-told tale of how the dear mamma will come\nquickly and press him lovingly to her breast:\n\n  Che fa mai col volto chino,\n      Quella tacita fanciulla?\n      Sta vegliando il fratellino,\n      Adagiato nella culla.\n\n  Ed il pargolo se desta,\n      E il meschino prorompe in pianto,\n      La bambina, mesta, mesta,\n      Vuol chetarlo col suo canto:\n\n  Bambolino mio, riposa,\n      Presto mamma tornera;\n      Cara mamma che amorosa\n      Al suo sen ti stringera.\n\nThe little French girl turns her thoughts to the hot milk and\nchocolate that are being prepared, and of which she no doubt expects\nto have a share:--\n\n  Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frere,\n  Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo.\n      Le papa est en haut, qui fait le lolo,\n      Le maman est en bas, qui fait le colo;\n  Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frere\n      Fais dodo.\n\nIn enumerating the rewards for infantine virtue--which is sleep--I\nmust not forget the celebrated hare's skin to be presented to Baby\nBunting, and the \"little fishy\" that the English father, set to be\nnurse _ad interim_, promises his \"babby\" when the ship comes in; nor\nshould I pass over the hopes raised in an inedited cradle song of\nFrench Flanders, which opens, like the Tuscan lullaby, with a short\nnarration:\n\n  Un jour un' pauv' dentilliere\n  En amicliton ch'un petiot garchun,\n  Qui d'puis le matin n'fesions que blaire,\n  Voulait l'endormir par une canchun.\n\nIn this barbarous _patios_, the poor lace-maker tells her \"p'tit\npocchin\" (little chick) that to-morrow he shall have a cake made of\nhoney, spices, and rye flour; that he shall be dressed in his best\nclothes \"com' un bieau milord;\" and that at \"la Ducasse,\" a local\n_fete_, she will buy him a laughable Polchinello and a bird-organ\nplaying the tune of the sugar-loaf hat. Toys are also promised in a\nJapanese lullaby, which the kindness of the late author of \"Child-life\nin Japan\" has enabled me to give in the original:\n\n  Nen-ne ko y[=o]--nen-ne ko y[=o]\n  Nen-ne no mori wa--doko ye yuta\n  Ano yama koyete--sato ye yuta\n  Sato no miyage ni--nani morota\n  Ten-ten taiko ni--sh[=o] no fuye\n  Oki-agari koboshima--inu hari-ko.\n\nSignifying in English:\n\n  Lullaby, baby, lullaby, baby\n  Baby's nursey, where has she gone\n  Over those mountains she's gone to her village;\n  And from her village, what will she bring?\n  A tum-tum drum, and a bamboo flute,\n  A \"daruma\" (which will never turn over) and a paper dog.\n\nScope is allowed for unlimited extension, as the singer can go on\nmentioning any number of toys. The _Daruma_ is what English children\ncall a tumbler; a figure weighted at the bottom, so that turn it how\nyou will, it always regains its equilibrium.\n\nMore ethereal delights than chocolate, hare's skins, bird-organs, or\neven paper dogs (though these last sound irresistibly seductive), form\nthe subject of a beautiful little Greek song of consolation: \"Lullaby,\nlullaby, thy mother is coming back from the laurels by the river, from\nthe sweet banks she will bring thee flowers; all sorts of flowers,\nroses, and scented pinks.\" When she does come back, the Greek mother\nmakes such promises as eclipse all the rest: \"Sleep, my child, and\nI will give thee Alexandria for thy sugar, Cairo for thy rice, and\nConstantinople, there to reign three years!\" Those who see deep\nmeaning in childish things will look with interest at the young Greek\nwoman, who sits vaguely dreaming of empire while she rocks her babe.\nThe song is particularly popular in Cyprus; the English residents\nthere must be familiar with the melody--an air constructed on the\nOriental scale, and only the other day set on paper. The few bars of\nmusic are like a sigh of passionate longing.\n\nFrom reward to punishment is but a step, and next in order to the\nsongs that refer to the recompense of good, sleepy children, must be\nplaced those hinting at the serious consequences which will be\nthe result of unyielding wakefulness. It must be confessed that\nretribution does not always assume a very awful form; in fact, in\none German rhyme, it comes under so gracious a disguise, that a child\nmight almost lie awake on purpose to look out for it:\n\n  Sleep, baby, sleep,\n  I can see two little sheep;\n  One is black and one is white,\n  And, if you do not sleep to-night,\n  First the black and then the white\n  Will give your little toes a bite.\n\nThe translation is by \"Hans Breitmann.\"\n\nIn the threatening style of lullaby, the bogey plays a considerable\npart. A history of the bogeys of all nations would be an instructive\nbook. The hero of one people is the bogey of another. Wellington and\nNapoleon (or rather \"Boney\") served to scare naughty babies long after\nthe latter, at least, was laid to rest. French children still have\nsongs about \"le Prince Noir,\" and the nurses sang during the siege of\nParis:\n\n  As-tu vu Bismarck\n    A la porte de Chatillon?\n  Il lance les obus\n    Sur le Pantheon.\n\nThe Moor is the nursery terror of many parts of Southern Europe;\nnot, however, it would seem of Sicily--a possible tribute to the\nenlightened rule of the Kalifs. The Greeks do not enjoy a like\nimmunity: Signor Avolio mentions, in his \"Canti popolari di Noto,\"\nthat besides saying \"the wolf is coming,\" it is common for mothers\nto frighten their little ones with, \"Zittiti, ca vienunu i Riece; Nu\nsciri ca 'ncianu ci su i Rieci\" (\"Hush, for the Greeks are coming:\ndon't go outside for the Greeks are there.\") Noto was the centre of\nthe district where the ancient Sikeli made their last stand against\nGreek supremacy: a coincidence that opens the way to bold speculation,\nthough the originals of the bogey Greeks may have been only pirates of\ntimes far less remote.\n\nIn Germany the same person distributes rewards and punishments: St\nNicholas in the Rhenish provinces, Knecht Ruprecht in Northern and\nCentral Germany, Julklapp in Pomerania. On Christmas eve, some one\ncries out \"Julklapp!\" from behind a door, and throws the gift into the\nroom with the child's name pinned upon it. Even the gentle St Lucy,\nthe Santa Claus of Lombardy, withholds her cakes from erring babes,\nand little Tuscans stand a good deal in awe of their friend the\nBefana; delightful as are the treasures she puts in their shoes when\nsatisfied with their behaviour, she is credited with an unpleasantly\nsharp eye for youthful transgressions. She has a relative in Japan of\nthe name of Hotii. Once upon a time Hotii, who belongs to the sterner\nsex, lived on earth in the garb of a priest. His birthland was China,\nand he had the happy fame of being extremely kind to children. At\npresent he walks about Japan with a big sack full of good things\nfor young people, but the eyes with which the back of his head is\nfurnished, enable him to see in a second if any child misconducts\nitself. Of more dubious antecedents is another patron of the children\nof Japan, Kishi Mojin, the mother of the child-demons. Once Kishi\nMojin had the depraved habit of stealing any young child she could lay\nhands on and eating it. In spite of this, she was sincerely attached\nto her own family, which numbered one thousand, and when the exalted\nAmida Niorai hid one of its members to punish her for her cruel\npractices, she grieved bitterly. Finally the child was given back on\ncondition that Kishi Mojin would never more devour her neighbours'\ninfants: she was advised to eat the fruit of the pomegranate whenever\nshe had a craving for unnatural food. Apparently she took the advice\nand kept the compact, as she is honoured on the 28th day of every\nmonth, and little children are taught to solicit her protection. The\nkindness shown to children both in Japan and China is well known;\nin China one baby is said to be of more service in insuring a safe\njourney than an armed escort.\n\n\"El coco,\" a Spanish bogey, figures in a sleep-song from Malaga:\n\"Sleep, little child, sleep, my soul; sleep, little star of the\nmorning. My child sleeps with eyes open like the hares. Little baby\ngirl, who has beaten thee that thine eyes look as if they had been\ncrying? Poor little girl! who has made thy face red? The rose on the\nrose-tree is going to sleep, and to sleep goes my child, for already\nit is late. Sleep little daughter for the _coco_ comes.\"\n\nThe folk-poet in Spain reaps the advantage of a recognised freedom of\nversification; with the great stress laid upon the vowels, a consonant\nmore or less counts for nothing:\n\n  A dormir va la rosa\n    De los rosales;\n  A dormir va mi nina\n    Porque ya es tarde.\n\nAll folk-poets, and notably the English, have recourse to an\noccasional assonant, but the Spaniard can trust altogether to such.\nVerse-making is thus made easy, provided ideas do not fail, and up to\nto-day, they have not failed the Spanish peasant. He has not, like\nthe Italian, begun to leave off composing songs. My correspondent at\nMalaga writes that at that place improvisation seems innate in the\npeople: they go before a house and sing the commonest thing they wish\nto express. Love and hate they also turn into songs, to be rehearsed\nunder the window of the individual loved or hated. There is even an\nold woman now living in Malaga who rhymes in Latin with extraordinary\nfacility. To the present section falls one other lullaby--coo-aby,\nperhaps I ought to say, since the Spanish _arrullo_ means the cooing\nof doves as well as the lulling of children. It is quoted by Count\nGubernatis:\n\n  Isabellita, do not pine\n    Because the flowers fade away;\n    If flowers hasten to decay\n  Weep not, Isabellita mine.\n\n  Little one, now close thine eyes,\n    Hark, the footsteps of the Moor!\n    And she asks from door to door,\n  Who may be the child who cries?\n\n  When I was as small as thou\n    And within my cradle lying,\n    Angels came about me flying\n  And they kissed me on my brow.\n\n  Sleep, then, little baby, sleep:\n    Sleep, nor cry again to-night,\n    Lest the angels take to flight\n  So as not to see thee weep.\n\n\"The Moor\" is in this instance a benignant kind of bogey, not far\nremoved from harmless \"wee Willie Winkie\" who runs upstairs and\ndownstairs in his nightgown:\n\n  Tapping at the window,\n    Crying at the lock,\n  \"Are the babes in their beds?\n    For it's now ten o'clock.\"\n\nThese myths have some analogy with a being known as \"La Dormette\" who\nfrequents the neighbourhood of Poitou. She is a good old woman who\nthrows sand and sleep on children's eyes, and is hailed with the\nwords:\n\n  Passez la Dormette,\n    Passez par chez nous!\n  Endormir gars et fillettes\n    La nuit et le jou.\n\nNow and then we hear of an angel who passes by at nightfall; it is not\nclear what may be his mission, but he is plainly too much occupied to\nlinger with his fellow seraphs, who have nothing to do but to kiss\nthe babe in its sleep. A little French song speaks of this journeying\nangel:\n\n  Il est tard, l'ange a passe,\n  Le jour a deja baisse;\n  Et l'on n'entend pour tout bruit\n  Que le ruisseau qui s'enfuit.\n  Endors toi,\n  Mon fils! c'est moi.\n  Il est tard et ton ami,\n  L'oiseau blue, s'est endormi.\n\nIn Calabria, when a butterfly flits around a baby's cradle, it is\nbelieved to be either an angel or a baby's soul.\n\nThe pendulum of good and evil is set swinging from the moment that the\ninfant draws its first breath. Angelical visitation has its complement\nin demonial influence; it is even difficult to resist the conclusion\nthat the ministers of light are frequently outnumbered by the powers\nof darkness. In most Christian lands the unbaptised child is given\nover entirely to the latter. Sicilian women are loth to kiss a child\nbefore its christening, because they consider it a pagan or a Turk. In\nEast Tyrol and Styria, persons who take a child to be baptised say on\ntheir return--\"A Jew we took away, a Christian we bring back.\" Some\nTyrolese mothers will not give any food to their babies till the rite\nhas been performed. The unbaptised Greek is thought to be simply\na small demon, and is called by no other designation than [Greek:\nsrakos] if a boy, and [Greek: srakoula] if a girl. Once when a\nchristening was unavoidably delayed, the parents got so accustomed to\ncalling their little girl by the snake name, that they continued doing\nso even after she had been presented with one less equivocal.\nDead unchristened babes float about on the wind; in Tyrol they are\nmarshalled along by Berchte, the wife of Pontius Pilate; in Scotland\nthey may be heard moaning on calm nights. The state to which their\nbaby souls are relegated, is probably a lingering recollection of\nthat into which, in pagan days, all innocent spirits were conceived\nto pass: an explanation that has also the merit of being as little\noffensive as any that can be offered. There is naturally a general\nwish to make baptism follow as soon as possible after birth--an\nend that is sometimes pursued regardless of the bodily risks it may\ninvolve. A poor woman gave birth to a child at the mines of Vallauria;\nit was a bitterly cold winter; the snow lay deep enough to efface the\nmountain tracks, and all moisture froze the instant it was exposed to\nthe air. However, the grandmother of the new-born babe carried it off\nimmediately to Tenda--many miles away--for the christening rite. As\nshe had been heard to remark that it was a useless encumbrance, there\nwere some who attributed her action to other motives than religious\nzeal; but the child survived the ordeal and prospered. In several\nparts of the Swiss mountains a baptism, like a funeral, is an event\nfor the whole community. I was present at a christening in a small\nvillage lying near the summit of the Julier Pass. The bare, little\nchurch was crowded, and the service was performed with a reverent\ncarefulness contrasting sharply with the mechanical and hurried\nperformance of a baptism witnessed shortly before in a very different\nplace, the glorious baptistry at Florence. It ended with a Lutheran\nhymn, sung sweetly without accompaniment, by five or six young\ngirls. More than half of the congregation consisted of men, whose\nweather-tried faces were wet with tears, almost without exception.\nI could not find out that there was anything particularly sad in the\ncircumstances of the case; the women certainly wore black, but then,\nthe rule of attending the funerals even of mere acquaintances, causes\nthe best dress in Switzerland to be always one suggestive of mourning.\nIt seemed that the pathos of the dedication of a dawning life to the\nSupreme Good was sufficient to touch the hearts of these simple folk,\nstarved from coarser emotion.\n\nIn Calabria it is thought unlucky to be either born or christened on\na Friday. Saturday is likewise esteemed an inauspicious day, which\npoints to its association with the witches' Sabbath, once the subject\nof numerous superstitious beliefs throughout the southern provinces\nof Italy. Not far from the battlefield near Benevento where Charles\nof Anjou defeated Manfred, grew a walnut tree, which had an almost\nEuropean fame as the scene of Sabbatical orgies. People used to hang\nupon its branches the figure of a two-headed viper coiled into a ring,\na symbol of incalculable antiquity. St Barbatus had the tree cut down,\nbut the devil raised new shoots from the root and so it was renewed.\nShreds of snake-worship may be still collected. The Calabrians hold\nthat the cast-off skin of a snake is an excellent thing to put under\nthe pillow of a sick baby. Even after their christening, children are\nunfortunately most susceptible to enchantment. When a beautiful and\nhealthy child sickens and dies, the Irish peasant infers that the\ngenuine baby has been stolen by fairies, and this miserable sprite\nleft in its place. Two ancient antidotes have great power to\ncounteract the effect of spells. One is the purifying Fire. In\nScotland, as in Italy, bewitched children, within the memory of living\nmen, have been set to rights by contact with its salutary heat. My\nrelative, Count Belli of Viterbo, was \"looked at\" when an infant by a\n_Jettatrice_, and was in consequence put by his nurse into a mild\noven for half-an-hour. One would think that the remedy was nearly as\nperilous as the practice of the lake-dwellers of cutting a little hole\nin their children's heads to let out the evil spirits, but in the case\nmentioned it seems to have answered well.\n\nThe other important curative agent is the purifying spittle. In\nScotland and in Greece, any one who should exclaim, \"What a beautiful\nchild!\" is expected to slightly spit upon the object of the remark, or\nsome misfortune will follow. Ladies in a high position at Athens have\nbeen observed to do this quite lately. The Scotch and Greek uneasiness\nabout the \"well-faured\" is by no means confined to those peoples; the\nsame anxiety reappears in Madagascar; and the Arab does not like you\nto praise the beauty of his horse without adding the qualifying \"an\nit please God.\" Persius gives an account of the precautions adopted\nby the friends of the infant Roman: \"Look here--a grandmother or\nsuperstitious aunt has taken baby from his cradle and is charming his\nforehead and his slavering lips against mischief by the joint action\nof her middle finger and her purifying spittle; for she knows right\nwell how to check the evil eye. Then she dandles him in her arms, and\npacks off the little pinched hope of the family, so far as wishing can\ndo it, to the domains of Licinus, or to the palace of Cr[oe]sus. 'May\nhe be a catch for my lord and lady's daughter! May the pretty ladies\nscramble for him! May the ground he walks on turn to a rose-bed.'\"\n(Prof. Conington's translation.)\n\nOne of the rare lullabies that contain allusion to enchantment is the\nfollowing Roumanian \"Nani-nani\":\n\n  Lullaby, my little one,\n  Thou art mother's darling son;\n  Loving mother will defend thee,\n  Mother she will rock and tend thee,\n  Like a flower of delight,\n  Or an angel swathed in white.\n\n  Sleep with mother, mother well\n  Knows the charm for every spell.\n  Thou shalt be a hero as\n  Our good lord, great Stephen, was,\n  Brave in war, and strong in hand,\n  To protect thy fatherland.\n\n  Sleep, my baby, in thy bed;\n  God upon thee blessings shed.\n  Be thou dark, and be thine eyes\n  Bright as stars that gem the skies.\n  Maidens' love be thine, and sweet\n  Blossoms spring beneath thy feet.\n\nThe last lines might be taken for a paraphrase of--\n\n                            ....... puellae\n  Hunc rapiant: quicquid calcaverit hic, rosa fiat.\n\nThe Three Fates have still their cult at Athens. When a child is three\ndays old, the mother places by its cot a little table spread with a\nclean linen cloth, upon which she sets a pot of honey, sundry cakes\nand fruits, her wedding ring, and a few pieces of money belonging\nto her husband. In the honey are stuck three almonds. These are the\npreparations for the visit of the [Greek: Moirai]. In some places the\nNorns or Parcae have got transformed into the three Maries; in others\nthey closely retain their original character. A perfect sample of the\nmixing up of pagan and Christian lore is to be found in a Bulgarian\nlegend, which shows the three Fates weaving the destiny of the infant\nSaviour during a momentary absence of the Virgin--the whole scene\noccurring in the middle of a Balkan wood. In Sicily exists a belief\nin certain strange ladies (\"donni-di-fora\"), who take charge of the\nnew-born babe, with or without permission. The Palermitan mother says\naloud, when she lifts her child out of the cradle, \"'Nnome di Dio!\"\n(\"In God's name!\")--but she quickly adds _sotto voce_: \"Cu licenzi,\nsignuri miu!\" (\"By your leave, ladies\").\n\nAt Noto, _Ronni-di-casa_, or house-women, take the place of the\n_Donni-di-fora_. They inhabit every house in which a fire burns. If\noffended by their host, they revenge themselves on the children:\nthe mother finds the infant whom she left asleep and tucked into the\ncradle, rolling on the floor or screaming with sudden fright. When,\nhowever, the _Ronni-di-casa_ are amiably disposed, they make the\nsleeping child smile, after the fashion of angels in other parts of\nthe world. Should they wish to leave an unmistakable mark of their\ngood will, they twist a lock of the baby's hair into an inextricable\ntress. In England, elves were supposed to tangle the hair during sleep\n(_vide King Lear_: \"Elf all my hair in knots;\" and Mercutio's Mab\nspeech). The favour of the Sicilian house-women is not without its\ndrawbacks, for if by any mischance the knotted lock be cut off,\nthey will probably twist the child's spine out of spite. \"'Ccussi lu\nlassurii li Ronni-di-casa,\" says an inhabitant of Noto when he points\nout to you a child suffering from spinal curvature. The voice is\nlowered in mentioning these questionable guests, and there are\nNoticiani who will use any amount of circumlocution to avoid actually\nnaming them. They are often called \"certi signuri,\" as in this\ncharacteristic lullaby:\n\n  My love, I wish thee well; so lullaby!\n  Thy little eyes are like the cloudless sky,\n  My little lovely girl, my pretty one,\n  Mother will make of thee a little nun:\n  A sister of the Saviour's Priory\n  Where noble dames and ladies great there be.\n  Sleep, moon-faced treasure, sleep, the while I sing:\n  Thou hadst thy cradle from the Spanish king.\n  When thou hast slept, I'll love thee better still.\n  (Sleep to my daughter comes and goes at will\n  And in her slumber she is made to smile\n  By certain ladies whom I dare not style.)\n  Breath of my body, thou, my love, my care,\n  Thou art without a flaw, so wondrous fair.\n  Sleep then, thy mother's breath, sleep, sleep, and rest,\n  For thee my very soul forsakes my breast.\n  My very soul goes forth, and sore my heart:\n  Thou criest; words of comfort I impart.\n  Daughter, my flame, lie still and take repose,\n  Thou art a nosegay culled from off the rose.\n\nAt Palermo, mothers dazzled their little girls with the prospect of\nentering the convent of Santa Zita or Santa Chiara. In announcing the\nbirth of his child, a Sicilian peasant commonly says, \"My wife has a\ndaughter-abbess.\" \"What! has your wife a daughter old enough to be an\nabbess?\" has sometimes been the innocent rejoinder of a traveller from\nthe mainland. The Convent of the Saviour, which is the destination of\nthe paragon of beauty described in the above lullaby, was one of\nthe wealthiest, and what is still more to the point, one of the most\naristocratic religious houses in the island. To have a relation among\nits members was a distinction ardently coveted by the citizens of\nNoto; a town which once rejoiced in thirty-three noble families, one\nloftier than the other. The number is now cut down, but according to\nSignor Avolio such as remain are regarded with undiminished reverence.\nThere are households in which the whole conversation runs on the\n_Barone_ and _Baronessa_, when not absorbed by the _Baronello_ and the\n_Baronessella_. It is just possible that the same phenomenon might be\nobserved without going to Noto. _Tutto il mondo e paese_: a proverb\nwhich would serve as an excellent motto for the Folk-lore Society.\n\nOutside Sicily the cradle-singer's ideal of felicity is rather\nmatrimonial than monastic. The Venetian is convinced that who never\nloved before must succumb to her daughter's incomparable charms. It\nseems, by-the-by, that the \"fatal gift\" can be praised without fear or\nscruple in modern Italy; the visitors of a new-born babe ejaculate in\na chorus, \"Quant' e bellino! O bimbo! Bimbino!\" and Italian lullabies,\nfar more than any others, are one long catalogue of perfections,\none drawn-out reiteration of the boast of a Greek mother of Terra\nd'Otranto: \"There are children in the street, but like my boy there is\nnot one; there are children before the house, but like my child there\nare none at all.\" The Sardinian who wishes to say something civil of\na baby will not do less than predict that \"his fame will go round the\nworld.\" The cradle-singer of the Basilicata desires for her nursling\nthat he may outstrip the sun and moon in their race. It has been seen\nthat the Roumanian mother would have her son emulate the famous hero\nof Moldavia; for her daughter she cherishes a gentler ambition:\n\n  Sleep, my daughter, sleep an hour;\n  Mother's darling gilliflower.\n  Mother rocks thee, standing near,\n  She will wash thee in the clear\n  Waters that from fountains run,\n  To protect thee from the sun.\n\n  Sleep, my darling, sleep an hour,\n  Grow thou as the gilliflower.\n  As a tear-drop be thou white,\n  As a willow, tall and slight;\n  Gentle as the ring-doves are,\n  And be lovely as a star!\n\nThis _nani-nani_ calls to mind some words in a letter of Sydney\nDobell's: \"A little girl-child! The very idea is the most exquisite of\npoems! a child-daughter--wherein it seems to me that the spirit of all\ndews and flowers and springs and tender, sweet wonders 'strikes\nits being into bounds.'\" \"Tear drop\" (_lacrimiora_) is the poetic\nRoumanian name for the lily of the valley. It may be needful to add\nthat gilliflower is the English name for the clove-pink; at least an\nexplanatory foot-note is now attached to the word in new editions of\nthe old poets. Exiled from the polite society of \"bedding plants\"--all\nheads and no bodies--the \"matted and clove gilliflowers\" which Bacon\nwished to have in his garden, must be sought for by the door of\nthe cottager who speaks of them fondly yet apologetically, as\n\"old-fashioned things.\" To the folk-singers of the small Italy on the\nDanube and the great Italy on the Arno they are still the type of the\nchoicest excellence, of the most healthful grace. Even the long stalk,\nwhich has been the flower's undoing, from a worldly point of view,\ngets praised by the unsophisticated Tuscan. \"See,\" he says, \"with\nhow lordly an air it holds itself in the hand!\" (\"Guarda con quanta\nsignoria si tiene in mano!\")\n\nThe anguish of the Hindu dying childless has its root deeper down in\nthe human heart than the reason he gives for it, the foolish fear lest\nhis funeral rites be not properly performed. No man quite knows what\nit is to die who leaves a child in the world; children are more than a\nlink with the future--they _are_ the future: the portion of ourselves\nthat belongs not to this day but to to-morrow. To them may be\ntransferred all the hopes sadly laid by, in our own case, as\nillusions; the \"to be\" of their young lives can be turned into a\nbeautiful \"arrangement in pink,\" even though experience has taught us\nthat the common lot of humanity is \"an Imbroglio in Whity-brown.\" Most\nparents do all this and much more; as lullabies would show were there\nany need for the showing of it. One cradle-song, however, faces\nthe truth that of all sure things the surest is that sorrow and\ndisappointment will fall upon the children as it has fallen upon the\nfathers. The song comes from Germany; the English version is by Mr C.\nG. Leland:\n\n  Sleep, little darling, an angel art thou!\n  Sleep, while I'm brushing the flies from your brow.\n  All is as silent as silent can be;\n  Close your blue eyes from the daylight and me.\n\n  This is the time, love, to sleep and to play;\n  Later, oh later, is not like to-day,\n  When care and trouble and sorrow come sore\n  You never will sleep, love, as sound as before.\n\n  Angels from heaven as lovely as thou\n  Sweep round thy bed, love, and smile on thee now;\n  Later, oh later, they'll come as to-day,\n  But only to wipe all the tear-drops away.\n\n  Sleep, little darling, while night's coming round,\n  Mother will still by her baby be found;\n  If it be early, or if it be late,\n  Still by her baby she'll watch and she'll wait.\n\nThe sad truth is there, but with what tenderness is it not hedged\nabout! These Teutonic angels are worth more than the too sensitive\nlittle angels of Spain who fly away at the sight of tears. And the\nlast verse conveys a second truth, as consoling as the first is sad;\npass what must, change what may, the mother's love will not change or\npass; its healing presence will remain till death; who knows? perhaps\nafter. Signor Salomone-Marino records the cry of one, who out of the\ndepths blesses the haven of maternal love:\n\n  Mamma, Mammuzza mia, vu' siti l'arma,\n  Lu me rifugiu nni la sorti orrenna,\n  Vui siti la culonna e la giurlanna,\n  Lu celu chi vi guardi e vi mantegna!\n\nThe soul that directs and inspires, the refuge that shelters, the\ncolumn that supports, the garland that crowns--such language would\nnot be natural in the mouth of an English labourer. An Englishman who\nfeels deeply is almost bound to hold his tongue; but the poor Sicilian\ncan so express himself in perfect naturalness and simplicity.\n\nThere is a kind of sleep-song that has only the form in common with\nthe rose-coloured fiction that makes the bulk of cradle literature. It\nis the song of the mother who lulls her child with the overflow of\nher own troubled heart. The child may be the very cause of her sorest\nperplexity: yet from it alone she gains the courage to live, from it\nalone she learns a lesson of duty:\n\n  \"The babe I carry on my arm,\n  He saves for me my precious soul.\"\n\nA Corsican mother says to the infant at her breast, \"Thou art my\nguardian angel!\"--which is the same thought spoken in another way.\n\nThe most lovely of all sad lullabies is that written much more than\ntwo thousand years ago by Simonides of Ceos. Acrisius, king of Argos,\nwas informed by an oracle that he would be killed by the son of his\ndaughter Danae, who was therefore shut up in a tower, where Zeus\nvisited her in the form of a shower of gold. Afterwards, when she gave\nbirth to Perseus, Acrisius ordered mother and child to be exposed in\na wicker chest or coffin on the open sea. This is the story which\nSimonides took as the subject of his poem:\n\n    Whilst the wind blew and rattled on the decorated ark, and the\n    troubled deep tossed as though in terror--her own fair cheek\n    also not unwet--around Perseus Danae threw her arms, and\n    cried: \"O how grievous, my child, is my trouble; yet thou\n    sleepest, and with tranquil heart slumberest within this\n    joyless house, beneath the brazen-barred, black-gleaming,\n    musky heavens. Ah! little reckest thou, beloved object, of the\n    howling of the tempest, nor of the brine wetting thy delicate\n    hair, as there thou liest, clad in thy little crimson mantle!\n    But even were this dire pass dreadful also to thee, yet lend\n    thy soft ear to my words: Sleep on, my babe, I say; sleep on,\n    I charge thee; nay, let the wild waters sleep, and sleep the\n    immeasurable woe. Let me, too, see some change of will on thy\n    part, Zeus, father! or if the speech be deemed too venturous,\n    then, for thy child's sake, I pray thee pardon.\"\n\nThis is not a folk-song, but it has a prescriptive right to a place\namong lullabies.\n\nPassing over the beautiful Widow's Song, quoted in a former essay, we\ncome to some Basque lines, which bring before us the blank and vulgar\nugliness of modern misery with a realism that would please M. Zola:\n\n  Hush, poor child, hush thee to sleep;\n  (See him lying in slumber deep!)\n  Thou first, then following I,\n  We will hush and hushaby.\n\n  Thy bad father is at the inn;\n  Oh! the shame of it, and the sin!\n  Home at midnight he will fare,\n  Drunk with strong wine of Navarre.\n\nAfter each verse the singer repeats again and again: _Lo lo, lo lo_,\non three lingering notes that have the plaintive monotony of the\nchiming of bells where there are but three in the belfry.\n\nAlmost as dismal as the Basque ditty is the English nursery rhyme:\n\n      Bye, O my baby!\n      When I was a lady\n  O then my poor baby didn't cry;\n      But my baby is weeping\n      For want of good keeping;\n  Oh! I fear my poor baby will die!\n\n--which may have been composed to fit in with some particular story,\nas was the tearful little song occurring in the ballad of Childe\nWaters:\n\n  She said: Lullabye, mine own dear child,\n    Lullabye, my child so dear;\n  I would thy father were a king,\n    Thy mother laid on a bier.\n\nOne feels glad that that story ends happily in a \"churching and\nbridal\" that take place upon the same day.\n\nI have the copy of a lullaby for a sick child, written down from\nmemory by Signor Lerda, of Turin, who reports it to be popular in\nTuscany:\n\n  Sleep, dear child, as mother bids:\n    If thou sleep thou shalt not die!\n    Sleep, and death shall pass thee by.\n  Close worn eyes and aching lids,\n    Yield to soft forgetfulness;\n    Let sweet sleep thy senses press:\n  Child, on whom my love doth dwell,\n  Sleep, sleep, and thou shalt be well.\n\n  See, I strew thee, soft and light,\n    Bed of down that cannot pain;\n    Linen sheets have o'er it lain\n  More than snow new-fallen white.\n    Perfume sweet, health-giving scent,\n    The meadows' pride, is o'er it sprent:\n  Sleep, dear son, a little spell,\n  Sleep, sleep, and thou shalt be well.\n\n  Change thy side and rest thee there,\n    Beauty! love! turn on thy side,\n    O my son, thou dost not bide\n  As of yore, so fresh and fair.\n    Sickness mars thee with its spite,\n    Cruel sickness changes quite;\n  How, alas! its traces tell!\n  Yet sleep, and thou shalt be well.\n\n  Sleep, thy mother's kisses poured\n    On her darling son. Repose;\n    God give end to all our woes.\n  Sleep, and wake by sleep restored,\n    Pangs that make thee faint shall fly!\n    Sleep, my child, and lullaby!\n  Sleep, and fears of death dispel;\n  Sleep, sleep, and thou shalt be well.\n\n\"Se tu dormi, non morrai!\" In how many tongues are not these words\nspoken every day by trembling lips, whilst the heart seems to stand\nstill, whilst the eyes dare not weep, for tears would mean the victory\nof hope or fear; whilst the watcher leans expectant over the beloved\nlittle wasted form, conscious that all that can be done has been done,\nthat all that care or skill can try has been tried, that there are no\nother remedies to fall back upon, that there is no more strength left\nfor battle, and that now, even in this very hour, sleep or his brother\ndeath will decide the issue.\n\nWhen a Sicilian hears that a child is dead, he exclaims, \"Glory\nand Paradise!\" The phrase is jubilant almost to harshness; yet the\nunderlying sentiment is not harsh. The thought of a dead child makes\nnatural harmonies with thoughts of bright and shining things. A mother\nlikes to dream of her lost babe as fair and spotless and little. If\nshe is sad, with him it is surely well. He is gone to play with the\nHoly Boys. He has won the crown of innocence. There are folk-songs\nthat reflect this radiancy with which love clothes dead children;\nsongs for the last sleep full of all the confusion of fond epithets\ncommonly addressed to living babies.\n\nOnly in one direction did my efforts to obtain lullabies prove\nfruitless. America has, it seems, no nursery rhymes but those which\nare still current in the Old World.[2] Mr Bret Harte told me: \"Our\nlullabies are the same as in England, but there are also a few Dutch\nones,\" and he went on to relate how, when he was at a small frontier\ntown on the Rhine, he heard a woman singing a song to her child: it\nwas the old story,--if the child would not sleep it would be punished,\nits shoes would be taken away; if it would go to sleep at once, Santa\nClaus would bring it a beautiful gift. Words and air, said Mr\nBret Harte, were strangely familiar to him; then, after a moment's\nreflection, he remembered hearing this identical lullaby sung amongst\nhis own kindred in the Far West of America.\n\n    [Footnote 1: The \"Preaching of the children\" took place as\n    usual in the Christmas week of 1885, but as the convent in\n    connection with the church of Santa Maria is about to be\n    pulled down, I cannot tell whether the pretty custom will be\n    adhered to in future. The church, however, which was also\n    threatened with demolition, is now safe.]\n\n    [Footnote 2: This is confirmed by Mr W. Newell in his\n    admirable book, \"Games and Songs of American Children\" (1885),\n    which might be called with equal propriety, \"Games and Songs\n    of British Children.\" It is indeed the best collection of\n    English nursery rhymes that exists. Thus America will have\n    given the mother country the most satisfactory editions, both\n    of her ballads (Prof. F. T. Child's splendid work, now in\n    course of publication) and of her children's songs.]\n\n\n\n\nFOLK-DIRGES.\n\n\nThere are probably many persons who could repeat by heart the greater\nportion of the last scene in the last book of the _Iliad_, and who\nyet have never been struck by the fact, that not its least excellence\nconsists in its setting before us a carefully accurate picture of a\ngroup of usages which for the antiquity of their origin, the wide\narea of their observance, and the tenacity with which they have been\npreserved, may be fairly said to occupy an unique position amongst\npopular customs and ceremonials. First, we are shown the citizens of\nTroy bearing their vanquished hero within the walls amidst vehement\ndemonstrations of grief: the people cling to the chariot wheels, or\nprostrate themselves on the earth; the wife and the mother of the dead\ntear their hair and cast it to the winds. Then the body is laid on\na bed of state, and the leaders of a choir of professional minstrels\nsing a dirge, which is at times interrupted by the wailing of the\nwomen. When this is done, Andromache, Hecuba, and Helen in turn give\nvoice each one to the feelings awakened in her by their common loss;\nand afterwards--so soon as the proper interval has elapsed--the body\nis burnt, wine being poured over the embers of the pyre. Lastly,\nthe ashes are consigned to the tomb, and the mourners sit down to a\nbanquet. \"Such honours paid they to the good knight Hector;\" and such,\nin their main features, are the funeral rites which may be presumed to\ndate back to a period not only anterior to the siege of Troy, granting\nfor the moment that event to have veritably taken place, but also\nprevious to the crystallisation of the Greek or any other of the\nIndo-European nationalities which flowed westward from the uplands of\nthe Hindu Kush. The custom of hymning the dead, which is just now what\nmore particularly concerns us, once prevailed over most if not all\nparts of Europe; and the firmness of its hold upon the affections\nof the people may be inferred from the persistency with which they\nadhered to it, even when it was opposed not only by the working of the\ngradual, though fatal, law of decay to which all old usages must in\nthe end submit, but also by the active interposition of persons\nin authority. Charlemagne, for instance, tried to put it down in\nProvence--desiring that all those attending funerals, who did not know\nby rote any of the appropriate psalms, should recite aloud the _Kyrie\neleison_ instead of singing \"profane songs\" made to suit the occasion.\nBut the edict seems to have met with a signal want of success; for\nsome five hundred years after it was issued, the Provencals still\nhired Praeficae, and still introduced within the very precincts of their\nchurches, whole choirs of lay dirge-singers, frequently composed of\nyoung girls who were stationed in two companies, that chanted songs\nalternately to the accompaniment of instrumental music; and this\nnotwithstanding that the clergy of Provence showed the strongest\nobjection to the performance of observances at funerals, other than\nsuch as were approved by ecclesiastical sanction. The custom in\nquestion bears an obvious affinity to Highland coronachs and Irish\nkeens, and here in England there is reason to believe it to have\nsurvived as late as the seventeenth century. That Shakespeare was\nwell acquainted with it is amply testified by the fourth act of\n_Cymbeline_; for it is plain that the song pronounced by Guiderius\nand Arviragus over the supposed corpse of Imogene was no mere poetic\noutburst of regret, but a real and legitimate dirge, the singing or\nsaying of which was held to constitute Fidele's obsequies. In the\nCotton Library there is a MS., having reference to a Yorkshire village\nin the reign of Elizabeth, which relates: \"When any dieth, certaine\nwomen sing a song to the dead bodie recyting the jorney that the\npartye deceased must goe.\" Unhappily the English Neniae are nearly all\nlost and forgotten; I know of no genuine specimen extant, except the\nfamous Lyke Wake (_i.e._, Death Watch) dirge beginning:\n\n  This ae nighte, this ae nighte,\n    _Everie nighte and alle_,\n  Fire and sleete and candle lighte,\n    _And Christe receive thy saule_, &c.\n\nTo the present day we find practices closely analogous with those\nrecounted in the _Iliad_ scattered here and there from the shores of\nthe Mediterranean to the banks of Lake Onega; and the Trojan threnody\nis even now reproduced in Ireland, in Corsica, Sardinia, and Roumania,\nin Russia, in Greece, and South Italy. Students who may be tempted to\nmake observations on this strange survival of the old world, will\ndo well, however, to set about it at once, in parts which are either\nalready invaded or else threatened with an imminent invasion of\nrailways, for the screech of the engine sounds the very death-knell of\nancient customs. Thus the Irish practice of keening is becoming less\nand less general. On recently making inquiries of a gentleman residing\nin Leinster, I learnt that it had gone quite out in that province;\nhe added that he had once seen keeners at a funeral at Clonmacnoise\n(King's County), but was told they came from the Connaught side of\nthe Shannon. The keens must not be confused with the peculiar wail or\ndeath-cry known as the Ullagone; they are articulate utterances, in\na strongly marked rhythm, extolling the merits of the dead, and\nreproaching him for leaving his family, with much more in the same\nstrain. The keeners may or may not be professional, and the keens are\nmore often of a traditional than of an improvised description. One\nor two specimens in Gaelic have appeared in the _Journal of the Irish\nArchaeological Association_, but on the whole the subject is far from\nhaving received the attention it deserves. The Irish keeners are\ninvariably women, as also are all the continental dirge-singers\nof modern times. Whether by reason of the somewhat new-fashioned\nsentiment which forbids a man to exhibit his feelings in public,\nor from other motives not unconnected with selfishness, the onus of\ndischarging the more active and laborious obligations prescribed in\npopular funeral rites has bit by bit been altogether shifted upon the\nshoulders of the weaker sex; _e.g._, in places where scratching and\ntearing of the face forms part of the traditional ritual, the women\nare expected to continue the performance of this unpleasant ceremony\nwhich the men have long since abandoned. Together with the dirge, a\nmore or less serious measure of self-disfigurement has come down from\nan early date. An Etruscan funeral urn, discovered at Clusi, shows an\nexact picture of the hired mourners who tear their hair and rend\ntheir garments, whilst one stands apart, in a prophetic attitude, and\ndeclaims to the accompaniment of a flute. Of the precise origin of\nthe employment of Public Wailers, or Praeficae, not much has been\nascertained. One distinguished writer on folk-lore suggests that it\nhad its rise not in any lack of consideration for the dead, but in the\napprehension lest the repose of their ghosts should be disturbed by a\ndisplay of grief on the part of those who had been nearest and dearest\nto them in life; and his theory gains support in the abundant evidence\nforthcoming to attest the existence of a widely-spread notion that\nthe dead are pained, and even annoyed and exasperated, by the tears\nof their kindred. Traces of this belief are discoverable in Zend\nand Hindu writings; also amongst the Sclavs, Germans, and\nScandinavians--and, to look nearer home, in Ireland and Scotland. On\nthe other hand, it is possible that the business of singing before the\ndead sprang from the root of well-nigh every trade--that its duties\nwere at first exclusively performed by private persons, and their\npassing into public hands resulted simply from people finding out\nthat they were executed with less trouble and more efficiency by a\nprofessional functionary; a common-place view of the matter which is\nsomewhat borne out by the circumstance, that whenever a member of the\nfamily is qualified and disposed to undertake the dirge-singing, there\nseems to be no prejudice against her doing so. It is often far from\neasy to determine whether such or such a death-song was composed by a\nhired praefica who for the time being assumed the character of one of\nthe dead man's relatives, or by the latter speaking in her own person.\n\nIn Corsica, the wailing and chanting are kept up, off and on, from\nthe hour of death to the hour of burial. The news that the head of\na family has expired is quickly communicated to his relations and\nfriends in the surrounding hamlets, who hasten to form themselves\ninto a troop or band locally called the Scirrata, and thus advance in\nprocession towards the house of mourning. If the death was caused by\nviolence, the scirrata makes a halt when it arrives in sight of the\nvillage; and then it is that the Corsican women tear their hair and\nscratch their faces till the blood flows--just as do their sisters in\nDalmatia and Montenegro. Shortly after this, the scirrata is met by\nthe deceased's fellow-villagers, accompanied by all his near relatives\nwith the exception of the widow, to whose abode the whole party\nnow proceeds with loud cries and lamentations. The widow awaits the\nscirrata by the door of her house, and, as it draws near, the leader\nsteps forward and throws a black veil over her head to symbolise her\nwidowhood; the term of which must offer a dreary prospect to a woman\nwho has the misfortune to lose her husband while she is still in the\nprime of life, for public opinion insists that she remain for years in\nalmost total seclusion. The mourners and as many as can enter the\nroom assemble round the body, which lies stretched on a table or plank\nsupported by benches; it is draped in a long mantle, or it is clothed\nin the dead man's best suit. Now begins the dirge, or Vocero. Two\npersons will perhaps start off singing together, and in that case the\nwords cannot be distinguished; but more often only one gets up at a\ntime. She will open her song with a quietly-delivered eulogy of the\nvirtues of the dead, and a few pointed allusions to the most important\nevents of his life; but before long she warms to her work, and pours\nforth volleys of rhythmic lamentation with a fire and animation that\nstir up the women present into a frenzied delirium of grief, in which,\nas the praefica pauses to take breath, they howl, dig their nails into\ntheir flesh, throw themselves on the ground, and sometimes cover their\nheads with ashes. When the dirge is ended they join hands and dance\nfrantically round the plank on which the body lies. More singing takes\nplace on the way to the church, and thence to the graveyard. After the\nfuneral the men do not shave for weeks, and the women let their hair\ngo loose and occasionally cut it off at the grave--cutting off the\nhair being, by the way, a universal sign of female mourning; it was\ndone by the women of ancient Greece, and it is done by the women of\nIndia. A good deal of eating and drinking brings the ceremonials to a\nclose. If the bill of fare comes short of that recorded of the funeral\nfeast of Sir John Paston, of Barton, when 1300 eggs, 41 pigs, 40\ncalves, and 10 nete were but a few of the items--nevertheless the\nCorsican baked meats fall very heavily upon the pockets of such\nfamilies as deem themselves compelled to \"keep up a position.\" Sixty\npersons is not an extraordinary number to be entertained at the\nbanquet, and there is, over and above, a general distribution of bread\nand meat to poorer neighbours. Mutton in summer, and pork in winter,\nare esteemed the viands proper to the occasion. In happy contrast to\nall this lugubrious feasting is the simple cup of milk drunk by each\nkinsman of the shepherd who dies in the mountains; in which case his\nbody is laid out, like Robin Hood's, in the open air, a green sod\nunder his head, his loins begirt with the pistol belt, his gun at\nhis side, his dog at his feet. Curious are the superstitions of the\nCorsican shepherds touching death. The dead, they say, call the living\nin the night time, and he who answers will soon follow them; they\nbelieve, too, that, if you listen attentively after dark, you may hear\nat times the low beating of a drum, which announces that a soul has\npassed.\n\nA notable section of the voceri treats of that insatiable thirst\nafter vengeance which formerly provided as fruitful a theme to French\nromancers as it presented a perplexing problem to French legislators.\nIn these dirges we see the vendetta in its true character, as the\noutgrowth and relic of times when people were, in self-defence,\nalmost coerced into lawlessness through the perpetual miscarriage\nof constituted justice, and they enable us to better understand the\nprocess by which what was at the outset something of the nature of a\nsocial necessity, developed into the ruling passion of the race, and\nled to the frightful abuses that are associated with its name. All\nthat he held sacred in heaven or on earth became bound up in the\nCorsican's mind with the obligation to avenge the blood of his\nkindred. Thus he made Hate his deity, and the old inexorable spirit\nof the Greek _Oresteia_ lived and breathed in him anew, the Furies\nthemselves finding no bad counterpart in the frenzied women who\nofficiated at his funeral rites. As is well known, when no man was to\nbe found to do the deed a woman would often come forward in his stead,\nand this not only among the lower orders, but in the highest ranks of\nsociety. A lady of the noble house of Pozzo di Borgo once donned\nmale attire, and in velvet-tasselled cap, red doublet, high sheepskin\nboots, with pistol, gun, and dagger for her weapons, started off in\nsearch of an assassin at the head of a band of partisans. When he was\ncaught, however, after the guns had been two or three times levelled\nat his breast, she decided to give him his life. Another fair avenger\nwhose name has come down to us was Maria Felice di Calacuccia, of\nNiolo. Her vocero may be cited here as affording a good idea of the\ntone and spirit of the vendetta dirges in general.\n\n\"I was spinning at my distaff when I heard a loud noise; it was a\ngun-shot, it re-echoed in my heart. It seemed to say to me: 'Fly! thy\nbrother dies.' I ran into the upper chamber. As I unlatched the door,\n'I am struck to the heart,' he said; and I fell senseless to the\nground. If I too died not, it was that one thought sustained me. Whom\nwouldst thou have to avenge thee? Our mother, nigh to death, or thy\nsister Maria? If Lario was not dead surely all this would not end\nwithout bloodshed. But of so great a race, thou dost only leave thy\nsister: she has no cousins, she is poor, an orphan, young. Still be at\nrest--to avenge thee, she suffices!\"\n\nA dramatic vocero, dealing with the same subject, is that of the\nsister of Canino, a renowned brigand, who fell at Nazza in an\nencounter with the military. She begins by regretting that she has not\na voice of thunder wherewith to rehearse his prowess. Alas! one early\nmorning the soldiers (\"barbarous set of bandits that they are!\")\nsallied forth on his pursuit, and pounced upon him like wolves upon\na lamb. When she heard the bustle of folks going to and fro in the\nstreet, she put her head out of window and asked what it was all\nabout. \"Thy brother has been slaughtered in the mountains,\" they\nreply. Even so it was; his arquebuse was of no use to him; no, nor his\ndagger, nor his pistol, nor yet his amulet. When they brought him in,\nand she beheld his wounds, the bitterness of her grief redoubled. Why\ndid he not answer her--did he lack heart to do so? \"Canino, heart of\nthy sister,\" she cries, \"how thou art grown pale! Thou that wert\nso stalwart and so full of grace, thou who didst appear like unto a\nnosegay of flowers. Canino, heart of thy sister, they have taken thy\nlife. I will plant a blackthorn in the land of Nazza, that none of our\nhouse may henceforth pass that way--for there were not three or four,\nbut seven men against one. Would I could make my bed at the foot of\nthe chestnut tree beneath whose shade they fired upon thy breast. I\ndesire to cast aside these women's skirts, to arm me with poniard, and\npistol, and gun, to gird me with the belt and pouch; Canino, heart of\nthy sister, I desire to avenge thy death.\" In the lamentations over\none Matteo, a doctor who was murdered in 1745, we have an example of\nthe songs improvised along the road to the grave. This time there are\nplenty of male relatives--brothers, brothers-in-law, and cousins--to\naccomplish the vendetta. The funeral procession passes through the\nvillage where the crime was committed, and one of the inhabitants,\nperhaps as a peace-offering, invites the whole party to come in and\nrefresh themselves. To this a young girl replies: \"We want none of\nyour bread and wine; what we do want is your blood.\" She invokes a\nthunderbolt to exterminate every soul in the blood-guilty place. But\nan aged dame interposes, for a wonder, with milder counsels; she bids\nher savage sisters calm their wrath: \"Is not Matteo in heaven with the\nLord? Look at his winding sheet,\" says she, \"and learn from it that\nChrist dwells above, who teaches forgiveness. The waters are troubled\nenough already without your goading on your men to violence.\" It is\nnot unlikely that the Corsicans may have been in the habit, like the\nIrish, of intentionally parading the coffin of a murdered man past the\ndoor of the suspected murderer, in order that they might have a public\nopportunity of branding the latter with infamy.\n\nHaving glanced at these hymns of the avenger, we will turn to the\nlaments expressive of grief unmixed with threats or anger. In these,\nalso, Corsica is very rich. Sometimes it is a wife who deplores her\nhusband struck down by no human hand, but by fever or accident. In one\nsuch vocero the widow pathetically crowds epithet on epithet, in the\nattempt to give words to her affection and her sorrow. \"You were my\nflower, my thornless rose, my stalwart one, my column, my brother, my\nhope, my prop, my eastern gem, my most beautiful treasure,\" she says\nto her lost \"Petru Francescu!\" She curses fate which in a brief moment\nhas deprived her of her paladin--she prayed so hard that he might\nbe spared, but it was all in vain. He was laid low, the greatly\ncourageous one, who seemed so strong! Is it indeed true, that he, the\nclever-headed, the handy-handed, will leave his Nunziola all alone?\nThen she bids Mari, her little daughter, come hither to where papa\nlies, and beg him to pray God in paradise that she may have a better\nlot than her little mother. She wishes her eyes may change into two\nfountains ere she forgets his name; for ever would she call him her\nPetru Francescu. But most of all she wishes that her heart might\nbreak so that her poor little soul could go with his, and quit this\ntreacherous world where is no more joy. The typical keen given in\nCarleton's _Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry_ is so like\nNunziola's vocero, that in parts it might be taken for a translation\nof it. Sometimes it is a plaint of a mother whose child has met the\nfate of those \"whom the gods love.\" That saying about the gods has its\nequivalent in the Corsican lines:\n\n  Chi nasci pe u paradisu\n  A stu mondu un po' imbecchia,\n\nwhich occur in the lament of La Dariola Danesi, of Zuani, who mourns\nher sixteen-year-old daughter Romana. Decked in feast-day raiment\nthe damsel sleeps in the rest of death, after all her sufferings. Her\nsweet face has lost its hues of red and white; it is like a gone-out\nsun. Romana was the fairest of all the young girls, a rose among\nflowers; the youths of the country round were consumed by love of her,\nbut in her presence they were filled with decorous respect. She was\ncourteous to all, familiar with none; in church everybody gazed at\nher, but she looked at no one; and the minute mass was over she would\nsay: \"Mamma, let us go.\" Never can the mother be consoled, albeit she\nknows her darling fares well up there in heaven where all things smile\nand are glad. Of a surety this earth was not worthy to contain so fair\na face. \"Ah! how much more beautiful Paradise will be now she is in\nit!\" cries the voceratrice, with the sublime audacity of maternal\nlove. In another dirge we have pictured a troop of girls coming early\nto the house of Maria, their young companion, to escort her to the\nChurch of St Elia: for this morning the father of her betrothed has\nsettled the marriage portion, and it is seemly that she should hear\nmass, and make an offering of wax tapers. But the maiden's mother\ncomes forth to tell the gladsome band that to-day's offering to\nSt Elia is not of waxen tapers; it is a peerless flower, a bouquet\nadorned with ribands--surely the saint will be well pleased with such\na fine gift! For the bride elect lies dead; who will now profit by\nher possessions--the twelve mattresses, the twenty-four lambs? \"I will\npray the Virgin,\" says the mother, \"I will pray my God that I may go\nhence this morning, pressing my flower to my heart.\" The playfellows\nbathe Maria's face with tears: sees she not those who loved her? Will\nshe leave them in their sadness? One runs to pluck flowers, a second\nto gather roses; they twine her a garland, a bridal crown--will she\ndepart all the same, lying upon her bier? But, after all, why should\nthere be all this grief? \"To-day little Maria becomes the spouse of\nthe Lord; with what honour will she not be greeted in paradise!\"\nAlas for broken hearts! they were never yet healed by that line of\nargument. Up the street steals the chilling sound of the funeral\nchant, _Ora pro ea_. They are come to bear the maiden to St Elia's\nChurch; the mother sinks to the ground; fain would she follow the body\nto the grave, but she faints with sorrow; only her streaming tears can\npay the tribute of her love.\n\nIt will be observed that it is usual for the survivors to be held up\nas objects of pity rather than the dead, who are generally regarded\nas well off; but now and then we come across less optimist presages of\nthe future life. A woman named Maddele complains that they have taken\nher blonde daughter, her snow-white dove, her \"Chili, cara di Mamma,\"\nto the worst possible of places, where no sun penetrates, and no fire\nis lit.\n\nSometimes to a young girl is assigned the task of bewailing her\nplaymate. \"This morning my companion is all adorned,\" begins a maiden\ndirge-singer; \"one would think she was going to be married.\" But the\nceremony about to take place differs sadly from that other. The\nbell tolls slowly, the cross and banner arrive at the door; the dead\ncompanion is setting out on a long journey, she is going to find their\nancestors--the voceratrice's father, and her uncle the cure--in the\nland whither each one must go in his turn and remain for ever. Since\nshe has made up her mind thus to change country and climate (though\nit be all too soon, for she has not yet done growing), will she at any\nrate listen for an instant to her friend of other days? She wishes\nto give her a little letter to carry to her father; and, besides the\nletter, she would like her to take him a message, and give him news of\nthe family he left so young, all weeping round his hearth. She is to\ntell him that all goes well; that his eldest daughter is married and\nhas a boy, a flowering lily, who already knows his father, and points\nat him with his finger. The boy is called after the grandpapa, and old\nfriends declare him to be his very image. To the cure she is to say\nthat his flock flourish and do not forget him. Now the priest enters,\nbringing the holy water; everyone lifts his hat; they bear the body\naway: \"Go to heaven, dear; the Lord awaits you.\"\n\nIt is hardly necessary to add that the voceri of Corsica are without\nexception composed in the native speech of the country, which the\naccomplished scholar, lexicographer, and poet, Niccolo Tommaseo, spoke\nof with perfect truth as one of \"the most Italian of the dialects\nof Italy.\" The time may come when the people will renounce their own\nlanguage in favour of the idiom of their rulers, but it has not come\nyet; nor do they show much disposition to abandon their old usages, as\nmay be guessed from the fact that even in their Gallicanised capital\nthe dead are considered slighted if the due amount of wailing is left\nundone.\n\nThe Sardinian Attitido--a word which has been thought to have some\nconnection with the Greek [Greek: ototoi], and the Latin _atat_--is\nmade on exactly the same pattern as the Corsican vocero. I have been\ntold on trustworthy authority that in some districts in the island the\nkeening over a married man is performed not by a dirge-singer but by\nhis own children, who chant a string of homely sentences, such as:\n\"Why art thou dead, papa? Thou didst not want for bread or wine!\" A\npractice may here be mentioned which recalls the milk and honey and\nnuts of the Roman Inferiae, and which, so far as I am aware, lingers on\nnowhere excepting Sardinia; the attidora whilst she sings, scatters\non the bier handfuls of almonds or--if the family is well-to-do--of\nsweetmeats, to be subsequently buried with the body.\n\nVery few specimens of the attitido have found their way into print;\nbut amongst these few, in Canon Spano's _Canti popolari Tempiesi_,\nthere is one that is highly interesting. Doubts have been raised as\nto whether the bulk of the songs in Canon Spano's collection are of\npurely illiterate origin; but even if the author of the dirge to which\nI allude was guilty of that heinous offence in the eyes of the strict\nfolk-lore gleaner--the knowledge of the alphabet--it must still be\njudged a remarkable production. The attidora laments the death of a\nmuch-beloved bishop:--\n\n\"It was the pleasure of this good father, this gentle pastor,\" she\nsays, \"at all hours to nourish his flock; to the bread of the soul he\njoined the bread of the body. Was the wife naked, her sons starving\nand destitute? He laboured unceasingly to console them all. The one he\nclothed, the others he fed. None can tell the number of the poor whom\nhe succoured. The naked came to him that they might be clothed, the\nhungry came to him that they might be fed, and all went their way\ncomforted. How many had suffered hunger in the winter's cold, had not\nhis tender heart proffered them help! It was a grand sight to behold\nso many poor gathered together in his house--above, below, they were\nso numerous there was no room to pass. And these were the comers of\nevery day. I do not count those to whom once a month he supplied\nthe needful food, nor yet those other poor to whose necessities he\nministered in secret. By the needy rogue he let himself be deceived\nwith shut eyes: he recognised the fraud, but he esteemed it gain so to\nlose. Ah, dear father, father to us all, I ought not to weep for thee!\nI mourn our common bereavement, for thy death this day has been a blow\nto all of us, even to the strongest men.\"\n\nIt would be hard to conceive a more lovely portrait of the Christian\npriest; it is scarcely surpassed by that of Monseigneur Bienvenu\nin _Les Miserables_, of whose conduct in the matter of the silver\ncandlesticks we are not a little reminded by the good Sardinian\nbishop's compassion for the needy rogue. Neither the one nor the other\nrealises an ideal which would win the unconditional approval of the\nCharity Organisation Society, and we must perhaps admit that humane\nproclivities which indirectly encourage swindling are more a mischief\nthan an advantage to the State. Yet who can be insensible to the\nbeauty of this unconquerable pity for the evil-doer, this charity that\nbelieveth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things? Who can\nsay how much it has done to make society possible, to keep the world\non its wheels? It is the bond that binds together all religions. Six\nthousand years ago the ancient Egyptian dirge-singers chanted before\ntheir dead: \"There is no fault in him. No answer riseth up against\nhim. In the truth he liveth, with the truth he nourisheth himself.\nThe gods are satisfied with all he hath done.... He succoured the\nafflicted, he gave bread to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, clothes\nto the naked, he sheltered the outcast, his doors were open to the\nstranger, he was a father to the fatherless.\"\n\nThe part of France where dirge-singing stayed the longest seems to\nhave been the south-west. The old women of Gascony still preserve\nthe memory of a good many songs, some of which have been fortunately\nplaced on record by M. Blade in his collection of Gascon folk-lore.\nThe Gascon dirge is a kind of prose recitative made up of distinct\nexclamations that fall into irregular strophes. Each has a burden of\nthis description:\n\n      Ah!\n  Ah! Ah! Ah!\n  Ah! Praube!\n  Ah! Praube!\n    Moun Diu!\n  Moun Diu! Moun Diu!\n\nThe wife mourns for the loss of \"Praube Jan;\" when she was a young\ngirl she loved only him. \"No, no! I will not have it! I will not have\nthem take thee to the graveyard!\" \"What will become of us?\" asks the\ndaughter; \"my poor mother is infirm, my brothers and sisters are too\nsmall; there is only me to rule the house.\" The mother bewails her\nboy: \"Poor little one! I loved thee so much, thou wert so pretty, thou\nwert so good. Thou didst work so well; all I bid thee do, thou didst;\nall I told thee, didst thou believe; thou wert very young, yet already\ndidst thou earn thy bread. Poor little one, thou art dead; they carry\nthee to the grave, with the cross going before. They put thee into\nthe earth.... Poor little one, I shall see thee no more; never! never!\nnever! Thou goest and I stay. My God! thou wilt be very lonely in the\ngraveyard this night; and I, I shall weep at home.\"\n\nIf we transport ourselves to the government of Olonetz, we discover\nthe first cousin of the Corsican voceratrice in the Russian Voplenitsa\n(\"the sobbing one\"). But the jurisdiction of this functionary is of\nwider extent; she is mistress of the ceremonies at marriages as well\nas at funerals, and in both cases either improvises new songs or\nadapts old ones. Mr Ralston has familiarised English readers with some\nexcellent samples of the Russian neniae in his work on the _Songs of\nthe Russian People_. In Montenegro dirge-singing survives in its\nmost primitive form. During the war of 1877 there were frequent\nopportunities of observing it. One such occurred at Ostrog. A wounded\nman arrived at that place, which was made a sort of hospital station,\nwith his father and mother, his sisters and a brother. Another\nbrother and a cousin had fallen by his side in the last fight--the\nMontenegrins have always gone into battle in families--and the women\nhad their faces covered with scratches, self-inflicted in their\nmourning for these kindred. The man was young, lively, and courageous;\nhe might have got well but there were no surgical instruments to\nextract the ball in his back, and so in a day or two he was dead. At\nthree in the morning the women began shrieking in spite of the orders\ngiven by the doctors in the interest of the other wounded; the noise\nwas horrible, and no sooner were they driven away than they came back\nand renewed it. The Prince, who has tried to put down the custom as\nbarbarous, was quartered at Ostrog, and he succeeded in having the\nwailers quieted for a moment, but when the body was borne to the\ncemetery the uproar began again. The women beat their breasts,\nscratched their faces, and screamed at a pitch that could be heard\na mile off. It is usual to return to the house where the person\ndied--they made their way therefore back into the hospital (the Prince\nbeing absent), and it was only after immense efforts on the part of\nthe sisters of charity and those who were in authority that they were\nexpelled. Then they seated themselves in the courtyard, and continued\nbeating their breasts and reciting their death-song. An eyewitness of\nthe scene described the dirge as a monotonous chant. One of the dead\nman's sisters had worked herself up into a state of hysterical frenzy,\nin which she seemed to have lost all control over her words and\nactions; she led the dirge, and her rhythmic ejaculations flowed forth\nas if she had no power to contain them. The father and brother went to\nsalute the Prince the day after the funeral; the old man appeared to\nbe extremely cheerful, but was doggedly inattentive to the advice to\ngo home and fight no more, as his family had suffered enough losses.\nHe had a son of ten, he said, who could accompany him now as there was\na gun to spare, which before had not been the case. He wished he had\nten sons to bring them all to fight the Turks.\n\nThe Sclavs are everywhere very strict in all that regards the cult\nof the dead, and the observances which have to be gone through by\nRussians who have lost friends or relations are by no means confined\nto the date of death and burial. Even when they have experienced\nno personal loss, they are still thought called upon to visit the\ncemeteries on the second Tuesday after Easter, and howl lustily over\nthe tombs of their ancestors. Nor would it be held sufficient to strew\nflowers upon the graves, as is done on the Catholic All Souls'\nday; the most orthodox ghosts want something more substantial, and\nlibations of beer and spirits are poured over their resting-places.\nFurthermore, disagreeable consequences have been said to result upon\nan omission of like marks of respect due to \"the rude forefathers\nof the hamlet;\" there is no making sure that a highly estimable\nindividual will not, when thus incensed, re-enter an appearance\non life's stage in the shape of a vampire. A small volume might be\nwritten on the preventive measures adopted to procure immunity from\nsuch-like visitations. The people of Havellend and Altmark put a small\ncoin into the mouths of the dead in the hope that, so appeased, they\nwill not assume vampire form; but this time the superstition, like\na vast number of others, is clearly a later invention to explain a\ncustom, the original significance of which is forgotten. The peasants\nof Roumelia also place pieces of money in the coffins, not as an\ninsurance against vampires--who they think may be best avoided by\nburning instead of burying the mortal remains of any person they\ncredit with the prospect of becoming one--but to pay the entrance fee\ninto Paradise; a more authentic version of the old fable. The setting\napart of a day, fixed by the Church or varying according to private\nanniversaries, for the special commemoration of the dead, is a\nworld-wide custom.\n\nIf, as Mr Herbert Spencer thinks, the rudimentary form of all religion\nis the propitiation of dead ancestors who are supposed still to exist,\nsome kind of _fete des morts_ was probably the oldest of religious\nfeasts. A theory has been started, to the effect that the time of its\nappointment has been widely influenced by the rising of the Pleiades,\nin support of which is cited the curious fact that the Australians and\nSociety Islanders keep the celebration in November, though with\nthem November is a spring month. But this may be no more than a\ncoincidence. In ancient Rome, in Russia, in China, the tendency has\nbeen to commemorate the dead in the season of resurrection.\n\nThe Letts and Esthonians observe the Feast of Souls, by spreading a\nbanquet of which they suppose their spirit relatives to partake; they\nput torches on the graves to light the ghosts to the repast, and they\nimagine every sound they hear through the day to be caused by the\nmovements of the invisible guests. Both these people celebrate\ndeath-watches with much singing and drinking, the Esthonians\naddressing long speeches to the dead, and asking him why he did\nnot stay longer, if his puddro (gruel) was not to his taste, &c.,\nprecisely after the style of the keeners of less remote parts. In\nsome countries the entire system of life would seem to be planned and\norganised mainly with a view to honouring the dead. In Albania, for\nexample, one of the foremost objects pursued by the peasantry is\nthat of marrying their daughters near home; not so much from any\naffectionate unwillingness to part with them, as in order to secure\ntheir attendance at the _vai_ or lamentations which take place on\nthe death of a member of the family; and so rigorous are the mourning\nregulations, that even married women who have lost their fathers\nremain year after year shut up in houses deprived of light and draped\nin black--they may not even go out to church. The Albanian keens are\nnot always versified; they sometimes consist simply in the endless\nreiteration of a single phrase. M. Auguste Dozon reports that he was\nat one time constantly hearing \"les hurlements\" of a poor Mussulman\nwidow who bewailed two sons; on certain anniversaries she took their\nclothes out of a chest, and, placing them before her, she repeated,\nwithout intermission, [Greek: Chalasia mon]. The Greeks have the\nsomewhat analogous practice, on the recurrence of the death-days\nof their dear ones, of putting their lips close to the graves and\nwhispering to their silent tenants that they still love them.\n\nThe near relations in Greece leave their dwelling, as soon as they\nhave closed the eyes of the dead, to take refuge in the house of a\nfriend, with whom they sojourn till the more distant connections have\nhad time to arrive, and the body is dressed in holiday gear. Then they\nreturn, clothe themselves in white dresses, and take up their position\nbeside the bier. After some inarticulate wailing, which is strenuously\nechoed back by the neighbours, the dirge is sung, the chief female\nmourner usually leading off, and whosoever feels disposed following\nwake. When the body is lowered into the earth, the best-beloved of the\ndead--his mother or perhaps his betrothed--stoops down to the ground\nand imploringly utters his name, together with the word \"Come!\" On his\nmaking no reply, he is declared to be indeed dead, and the grave is\nclosed.[1] The usage points to a probability that all the exhortations\nto awaken and to return with which the dirges of every nation\nare interlarded are remnants of ancient makeshifts for a medical\ncertificate of death; and we may fancy with what breathless\nexcitement these apostrophes were spoken in former days when they were\naccompanied by an actual, if faint, expectation that they would be\nheard and answered. It is conceivable that the complete system of\nmaking as much noise as possible at funerals may be derived from some\nsort of notion that the uproar would wake the dead if he were not dead\nat all, but sleeping. As elsewhere, so in Greece, the men take no part\nin the proceedings beyond bidding one last farewell just before they\nretire from the scene. Praeficae are still employed now and then; but\nthe art of improvisation seems to be the natural birthright of Greek\npeasant women, nor do they require the inspiration of strong grief to\ncall their poetic gifts into operation; it is stated to be no unusual\nthing to hear a girl stringing elegies over some lamb, or bird, or\nflower, which may have died, while she works in the fields. The Greeks\nsend communications and even flowers by the dead to the dead: \"Now\nis the time,\" the folk-poet makes one say whose body is about to be\nburied, \"for you to give me any messages or commissions; and if your\ngrief is too poignant for utterance, write it down on paper and bring\nme the letter.\" The Greek neniae are marked by great vigour and variety\nof imagery as is apparent in the subjoined extract from the dirge of a\npoor young country-woman who was left a widow with two children:--\n\n\"The other day I beheld at our threshold a youth of lofty stature and\nthreatening mien; he had out-stretched wings of gleaming white, and in\nhis hand was a sword. 'Woman, is thy husband in the house?' 'Yes; he\ncombs our Nicos' hair, and caresses him so he may not cry. Go not in,\nterrible youth; do not frighten our babe.' The white-winged would not\nlisten; I tried to drive him back, but I could not; he darted past\nme, and ran to thy side, O my beloved. Hapless one, he smote thee; and\nhere is thy little son, thy tiny Nicos, whom likewise he was fain to\nstrike.\" ...\n\nSo vivid was the impression created by the woman's fantasy that\nsome of the spectators looked towards the door, half expecting the\nwhite-winged visitant to advance in their midst; others turned to the\nchild, huddled by his mother's knees. She, coming down from flights\nof imagination to the bitter realities of her condition, exclaimed,\nas she flung herself sobbing upon the bier: \"How can I maintain the\nchildren? How will they be able to live? What will they not suffer in\nthe contrast between the rough lot in store for them and the tender\ncare which guarded them in the happy days when their father lived?\" At\nlast, worn out by the force of her emotions, she sank senseless to the\nfloor. The laments of widows, which are very rare in some localities,\nare often to be met with in Greece. In one of them we come upon an\noriginal idea respecting the requirements of spirits: the singer prays\nthat her tears may swell into a lake or a sea, so they may trickle\nthrough the earth to the nether regions, to moisten those who get\nno rain, to be drink to those who thirst, and--to fill up the dry\ninkstands of the writers! \"Then will they be able to chronicle the\nchagrins of the loved ones who cross the river, taste its wave, and\nforget their homes and their poor orphans.\" Every species of Grecian\npeasant-song abounds in classical reminiscences, which are easy to\nidentify, although they betray some mental confusion of the attributes\nand functions belonging to the personages of antiquity. Of all the\nearly myths, that of the Stygian ferryman is the one which has shown\ngreatest longevity. Far from falling into oblivion, the son of Erebus\nhas gone on diligently accumulating honours till he has managed to get\nthe arbitrament of life and death into his power, and to enlist the\nbirds of the air as a staff of spies, to give him prompt information\nshould any unlucky individual refer to him in a tone of mockery or\ndefiance. Perhaps this is not development but reversion. Charon may\nhave been a great Infernal deity before he was a boatman. The Charun\nof the Etruscans could destroy life and torment the guilty--the office\nof conducting shades to the other world forming only one part of his\nduties.\n\nThe opinion of Achilles, that it was better to be a slave amongst\nmen than a king over ghosts, is very much that which prevails in the\nGreece of to-day. Visions of a Christian paradise above the skies\nhave much less hold on the popular mind than dread of a pagan Tartarus\nunder the earth; and that full conviction that after all it was a very\nbad thing to die, that tendency to attach a paramount value to life,\n_per se_, and _quand meme_, which constituted so significant a\nfeature of the old Greeks, is equally characteristic of their modern\nrepresentatives. The next world of the Romaic songs is far from\nbeing a place \"where all smiles and is glad;\" the forebodings of the\nCorsican's Chilina's mother are common enough here in Greece. \"Rejoice\nin the present world, rejoice in the passing day,\" runs a [Greek:\nmyrologion], quoted by Fauriel; \"to-morrow you will be under the sod,\nand will behold the day no more.\" Down in Tartarus youths and maidens\nspend their time dismally in asking if there be yet an earth and a\nsky up above. Are there still churches and golden icons? Do people\ncontinue to work at their several trades? \"Blessed are the mountains\nand the pastures,\" it is said, \"where we meet not Charon.\" The parents\nof a dying girl ask of her why she is resolved to hasten into the\nother world where the cock crows not, and the hen clucks not;\nwhere there is no water and no grass, and where the hungry find it\nimpossible to eat, and the tired are incapable of sleep. Why is\nshe not content to abide at home? The girl replies she cannot, for\nyesterday, in the late evening, she was married, and her consort is\nthe tomb. That is the peasant elegist's way of speaking of a sudden\ndeath, caused very likely by the chill of nightfall. Of another\ndamsel, who succumbed to a long illness, \"who had suffered as none\nbefore suffered under the sun,\" he narrates how she pressed her\nfather's hand to her heart, saying: \"Alas! my father, I am about to\ndie.\" She clasped her mother's hand to her breast, saying: \"Alas! my\nmother, I am about to die.\" Then she sent for her betrothed, and she\nbent over him and kissed him, and whispered softly into his ear: \"Oh,\nmy friend, when I am dead deck my grave as you would have decked my\nnuptial bed.\" We find in Greek poesy the universal legend of the lover\nwho kills himself on hearing of the death of his mistress; but, as\na rule, the regret of survivors is depicted as neither desperate nor\ndurable. Long ago, three gallant youths plotted together to contrive\nan escape from Hades, and a fair-haired maiden prayed that they would\ntake her with them; she did so wish to see her mother mourning her\nloss, her brothers weeping because she is no more. They answered: \"As\nto thy brothers, poor girl, they are dancing, and thy mother diverts\nherself with gossiping in the street.\" The mournfully beautiful\nmusic that Schubert wedded to Claudius's little poem _Der Tod und das\nMaedchen_ might serve as melodious expression to many a one of these\nGrecian lays of dead damsels. Death will not halt because he hears\na voice crying: \"Tarry, I am still so young!\" The future is as\nirrevocably fixed as the past; and if fate deals hardly by mortals,\nthere is nothing to fall back upon but the sorry resignation of\ndespair; such is the sombre folk philosophy of the land of eternal\nsummer. Perhaps it is the very brightness of the sky and air that\nmakes the quitting of this mortal coil so unspeakably grievous. The\nmost horribly painful idea associated with death in the mind of the\nmodern as of the ancient Greek is the idea of darkness, of separation\nfrom what Dante, yet more Greek than Italian in his passionate\nsun-worship, describes in a line which seems somehow to hold incarnate\nthe thing it tells of--\n\n       ... l'aer dolce che dal sol s'allegra.\n\nIt is worth noting that, whether the view entertained of immortality\nbe cheerful or the reverse, in the songs of Western nations the\ndisembodied soul is universally taken to be the exact duplicate of\nthe creature of flesh and blood, in wants, tastes, and semblance. The\nEuropean folk-singer could no more grasp a metaphysical conception of\nthe eternity of spirit, such as that implied in the grand Indian dirge\nwhich craves everlasting good for the \"unborn part\" in man, than\nhe would know what to make of the scientific theory of the\nindestructibility of matter shadowed forth in the ordinary Sanskrit\nperiphrases for death, signifying \"the resolution of the body into its\nfive elementary constituents.\"\n\nAmong the Greek-speaking inhabitants of Southern Italy a peculiar\nmetre is set apart to the composition of the neniae, and the office\nof public wailer is transmitted from mother to daughter; so that the\nliving praeficae are the lineal descendants of the praeficae who lived\nof old in the Grecian Motherland. Unrivalled in the matter of her\nimprovisations as in the manner of their delivery, the hereditary\ndirge-singer no doubt, like a good actress, keenly realises at\nthe moment the sorrow not her own, of which she undertakes the\ninterpretation in return for a trifling gratuity, and to her hearers\nshe appears as the genius or high priestess of woe: she excites them\ninto a whirlwind of ecstatic paroxysms not greatly differing\nfrom kindred phenomena vouched for by the historians of religious\nmysticism. There are, however, one or two of the Graeco-Italic\ndeath-songs which bear too clear and touching a stamp of sincerity for\nus to attribute them even to the most skilled of hired \"sobbing ones.\"\nThere is no savour of vicarious mourning in the plaint of the desolate\ngirl, who says to her dead mother that she will wait for her, so that\nshe may tell her how she has passed the day: at eight she will await\nher, and if she does not come she will begin to weep; at nine she will\nawait her, and if she comes not she will grow black as soot; at ten\nshe will await her, and if she does not come at ten she will turn to\nearth, to earth that may be sown in. And it is difficult to believe\nthat aught save the anguish of a mother's broken heart could have\nquickened the senses of an ignorant peasant to the tragic intensity of\nthe following lament:\n\n  Now they have buried thee, my little one,\n      Who will make thy little bed?\n      Black Death will make it for me\n      For a very long night.\n  Who will arrange thy pillows,\n      So thou mayst sleep softly?\n      Black Death will arrange them for me\n      With hard stones.\n  Who will awake thee, my daughter,\n      When day is up?\n      Down here it is always sleep,\n      Always dark night.\n  This my daughter was fair.\n  When I went (with her) to high mass,\n  The columns shone,\n  The way grew bright.\n\nThe neniae of Terra d'Otranto and of Calabria are not uncommonly\ncomposed in a semi-dramatic form. Professor Comparetti cites one, in\nwhich the friend of a dead girl is represented as going to pay her a\nvisit, in ignorance of the misfortune that has happened. She sees a\ncrowd at the door, and she exclaims: \"How many folks are in thy house!\nthey come from all the neighbourhood; they are bidden by thy mother,\nwho shows thee the bridal array!\" But on crossing the threshold she\nfinds that the shutters are closed: \"Alas!\" she cries, \"I deceive\nmyself--I enter into darkness.\" Again she repeats: \"How many folks are\nin thy house! All Corigliano is there.\" The mother says: \"My daughter\nhas bidden them by the tolling of the bell.\" Then the daughter is made\nto ask: \"What ails thee, what ails thee, my mother? wherefore\ndost thou rend thy hair?\" The mother rejoins: \"I think of thee, my\ndaughter, of how thou liest down in darkness.\" \"What ails thee, what\nails thee, my mother, that all around one can hear thee wailing?\" \"I\nthink of thee, my daughter, of how thou art turned black as soot.\" A\nsort of chorus is appended: \"All, all the mothers weep and rend their\nhair: let them weep, the poor mothers who lose their children.\" Here\nare the last four lines as they were originally set on paper:\n\n  Ole sole i mane i cluene\n    Isirnune anapota ta maddia,\n  Afi na clapsune tio mane misere\n    Pu ichannune ta pedia!\n\nProfessor Comparetti has shaped them into looking more like Greek:\n\n  [Greek: Olais, holais e manai eklaioune\n  Esyrnoune anapoda ta mallia\n  Aphese na klapsoune tais manais] _misere_\n  [Greek: Pou echanoune ta paidia!]\n\nIn his \"Tour through the Southern Provinces of the Kingdom of Naples,\"\nthe Hon. R. Keppel Craven gave an account of a funeral at Corigliano.\nThe deceased, a stout, swarthy man of about fifty, had been fond of\nfield sports; he was, therefore, laid on his open bier in the dress of\na hunter. When the procession passed the house of a friend of the dead\nman, it halted as a mark of respect, and the friend got up from his\ndinner and looked out for a few minutes, afterwards philosophically\nreturning to the interrupted meal. The busy people in the street,\ncarpenters, blacksmiths, cobblers, and fruitsellers, paused from their\nseveral occupations--all carried on, as usual, in the open air, when\nthe dismal chant of the priests announced the approach of the funeral,\nresuming them with redoubled energy as soon as it had moved on.\nA group of weeping women led the widow, whose face was pale and\nmotionless as a statue; her black tresses descended to her knees,\nand at regular intervals she pulled out two or three hairs--the women\ninstantly taking hold of her hands and replacing them by her side,\nwhere they hung till the operation was next repeated.\n\nThe practice of plucking out the hair was so general in the last\ncentury that even at Naples the old women had hardly a hair left from\nout-living many relations. It was proper also to observe the day\nof burial as a fast day. Two unlucky women near Salerno lost their\ncharacters for ever because the dog of a visitor who had come to\ncondole, sniffed out a dish of tripe which had been hastily thrust\ninto a corner.\n\nThe Italian, or rather Calabrese-speaking population of Calabria,\ncall their preficae--where they still have any--_Reputatrici_. Some\nremarkable songs have been collected in the commune of Pizzo, the\nplace of dubious fame by whose peasants Murat was caught and betrayed.\nThere is something Dantesque in the image of Death as _'nu gran\nlevreri_ crouching in a mountain defile:\n\n    Joy, I saw death; Joy, I saw her yesterday; I beheld her in a\n    narrow way, like unto a great greyhound, and I was very\n    curious. \"Death, whence comest thou?\" \"I am come from Germany,\n    going thence to Count Roger. I have killed princes, counts,\n    and cavaliers; and now I am come for a young maiden so that\n    with me she may go\".\n\n    Weep, mamma, weep for me, weep and never rest; weep for me\n    Sunday, Easter, and Christmas Day; for no more wilt thou see\n    thy daughter sit down at thy board to eat, and no more shalt\n    thou await me.\n\nOne conclusion forced upon us incidentally by folk-dirges must seem\nstrange when we remember how few are the cultured poetesses who have\nattained eminence--to wit, that with the unlettered multitude the\npoetic faculty is equally the property of women as of men.\n\nIn various parts of Italy the funerals of the poor are conducted\nexclusively by those of like sex with the dead--a custom of which I\nfirst took note at Varese in the year 1879. The funeral procession\ncame up slowly by the shady paths near the lake; long before it\nappeared one could hear the sound of shrill voices chanting a litany.\nWhen it got near to the little church of S. Vittore, it was seen that\nonly women followed the bier, which was carried by women. \"Una povera\ndonna morta in parto,\" said a peasant standing by, as she pointed to\nthe coffin with a gesture of sympathy. The mourners had black shawls\nthrown over their heads and bore tapers. A sight yet stranger to\nunaccustomed eyes is the funeral of a child at Spezia. A number of\nlittle girls, none older than eleven or twelve, some as young as five,\ncarry the small coffin to the cemetery. Some of the children hold\ncandles; they are nicely dressed in their best frocks; the sun plays\non their bare black or golden curls. They have the little serious look\nof children engaged in some business of work or play, but no look of\ngloom or sadness. The coffin is covered with a white pall on which\nlies a large nosegay. No priests or elder persons are there except one\nman, walking apart, who has to see that the children go the right\nway. About twenty children is the average number, but there may\nbe sometimes a hundred. When they return, running across the grass\nbetween the road and the sea-wall, they tumble over one another in the\nscramble to snatch daisies from the ground.\n\nIt is still common in Lombardy to ring the bells _d'allegrezza_ on the\ndeath of an infant, \"because its soul goes straight to Paradise.\" This\nway of ringing, or, rather, chiming, consists in striking the bell\nwith a clapper held in the hand, when a light, dancing sound is\nproduced, something like that of hand-bells. On a high _festa_ all the\nbells are used; for dead babies, only two. I have often heard the sad\nmessage sounding gaily from the belfry at Salo.\n\nWere I sure that all these songs of the Last Parting would have\nfor others the same interest that they have had for me, I should\nbe tempted to add a study dedicated solely to the dirges of savage\nnations and of those nations whose civilization has not followed the\nsame course as ours. I must, at all events, indicate the wonderfully\nstrange and wild Polynesian \"Death-talks\" and \"Evas\" (dirges proper)\ncollected by the Rev. W. W. Gill. The South Pacific Islanders say of\nthe dying, \"he is passing over the sea.\" Their dead set out in a canoe\non a long and perilous voyage to the regions of the sun-setting. When\nthey get there, alas!--when they reach the mysterious spirit-land,\na horrid doom awaits them: children and old men and women--all, in\nshort, who have not died in battle, are devoured by a dreadful deity,\nand perish for ever. But this fate does not overtake them immediately;\nfor a time they remain in a shadowy intermediate state till their\nturn comes. The spirit-journey is described in a dirge for two little\nchildren, composed by their father about the year 1796:\n\n  \"Thy god,[2] pet-child, is a bad one;\n  For thy body is attenuated;\n  This wasting sickness must end thy days.\n  Thy form, once so plump, now how changed!\n  Ah! that god, that bad god!\n  Inexpressibly bad, my child!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Thou hast entered the expanse;\n  And wilt visit 'the land of red parrot feathers,'\n  Where O[=a]rangi was once a guest.\n  Thou feedest now on ocean spray,\n  And sippest fresh water out of the rocks,\n  Travelling over rugged cliffs,\n  To the music of murmuring billows.\n  Thy exile spirit is overtaken\n  By darkness at the ocean's edge.\n  Fourapapa[3] there sleeps. All three[4]\n  Stood awhile to gaze wistfully\n  At the glories of the setting sun.\"\n\nThere is much more, but this is perhaps sufficient to show the\nparticular note struck.\n\nI will give, in its entirety, one more dirge--the death-chant of the\ntribe of Badagas, in the Neilgherry Hills--because it is unique, so\nfar as I know, in reversing the rule _de mortius_, and in charging,\ninstead, the dead man with every sin, to make sure that none are\nomitted of which he is actually guilty. It is accompanied by a\nsingular ceremony. An unblemished buffalo-calf is led into the midst\nof the mourners, and as after each verse they catch up and repeat the\nrefrain, \"It is a sin!\" the performer of the dirge lays his hand upon\nthe calf, to which the guilt is transferred. At the end the calf is\nlet loose; like the Jewish scape-goat, it must be used for no secular\nwork; it bears the sins of a human being, and is sacred till death.\nThe English version is by Mr C. E. Gover, who has done so much for the\npreservation of South-Indian folk-songs.\n\n  INVOCATION.\n\n  In the presence of the great Bassava,\n  Who sprang from Banige the holy cow.\n\n  The dead has sinned a thousand times.\n  E'en all the thirteen hundred sins\n  That can be done by mortal men\n  May stain the soul that fled to-day.\n  Stay not their flight to God's pure feet.\n                  Chorus--Stay not their flight.\n\n  He killed the crawling snake\n                            Chorus--It is a sin.\n\n  The creeping lizard slew.\n                                    It is a sin.\n\n  Also the harmless frog.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  Of brothers he told tales.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  The landmark stone he moved.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  Called in the Sircar's aid.[5]\n                                    It is a sin.\n  Put poison in the milk.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  To strangers straying on the hills,\n  He offered aid but guided wrong.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  His sister's tender love he spurned\n  And showed his teeth to her in rage.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  He dared to drain the pendent teats\n  Of holy cow in sacred fold.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  The glorious sun shone warm and bright\n  He turned its back towards its beams.[6]\n                                    It is a sin.\n  Ere drinking from the babbling brook,\n  He made no bow of gratitude.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  His envy rose against the man\n  Who owned a fruitful buffalo.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  He bound with cords and made to plough\n  The budding ox too young to work.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  While yet his wife dwelt in his house\n  He lusted for a younger bride.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  The hungry begged--he gave no meat,\n  The cold asked warmth--he lent no fire.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  He turned relations from his door,\n  Yet asked unworthy strangers home.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  The weak and poor called for his aid,\n  He gave no alms, denied their woe.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  When caught by thorns, in useless rage\n  He tore his cloth from side to side.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  The father of his wife sat on the floor\n  Yet he reclined on bench or couch.\n                                    It is a sin.\n  He cut the bund around a tank,\n  Set free the living water's store.\n                                    It is a sin.\n\n  What though he sinned so much,\n  Or that his parents sinned?\n  What though the sins' long score\n  Was thirteen hundred crimes?\n  O let them every one,\n  Fly swift to Bas'va's feet.\n                              Chorus--Fly swift.\n\n  The chamber dark of death\n  Shall open to his soul.\n  The sea shall rise in waves;\n  Surround on every side,\n  But yet that awful bridge\n  No thicker than a thread,\n  Shall stand both firm and strong.\n  The dragon's yawning mouth\n  Is shut--it brings no fear.\n  The palaces of heaven\n  Throw open wide their doors.\n                  Chorus--Open wide their doors.\n\n  The thorny path is steep,\n  Yet shall his soul go safe.\n  The silver pillar stands\n  So near--he touches it.\n  He may approach the wall\n  The golden wall of heaven.\n  The burning pillar's flame\n  Shall have no heat for him.\n                     Chorus--Shall have no heat.\n\n  Oh let us never doubt\n  That all his sins are gone,\n  That Bassava forgives.\n  May it be well with him!\n                         Chorus--May it be well!\n  Let all be well with him!\n                        Chorus--Let all be well.\n\nSurely an impressive burial service to have been found in use amongst\na poor little obscure tribe of Indian mountaineers!\n\nIt cannot be said that this moral attitude is often reached. Research\ninto funeral rites, of whatever nature, confronts us with much that\nwould be ludicrous were it not so very pitiful, for humanity has\ndisplayed a fatal tendency to rush into the committal of ghastly\nabsurdities by way of showing the most sacred kind of grief. Yet, take\nthem all in all, the death laments of the people form a striking and\nbeautiful manifestation of such homage as \"Life may give for love to\ndeath.\"\n\n    [Footnote 1: \"Calling the dead\" was without doubt once general\n    amongst all classes--which may be true of all the customs that\n    we are now inclined to associate with only the very poor. In\n    the striking mediaeval ceremonial performed at the entombment\n    of King Alfonso in the vault at the Escurial, the final act\n    was that of the Lord Chamberlain, who unlocked the coffin, and\n    in the midst of profound silence shouted into the king's ear,\n    \"Senor, Senor, Senor.\" After which he rose, saying, \"His\n    majesty does not answer. Then it is true the king is dead.\"]\n\n    [Footnote 2: The child's \"personal fate.\"]\n\n    [Footnote 3: The brother.]\n\n    [Footnote 4: A little sister had died before.]\n\n    [Footnote 5: He had recourse to the Rajahs, whose courts under\n    the old regime, had become a byeword for oppression and\n    corruption.]\n\n    [Footnote 6: Compare _Inferno_, Canto vii.]\n\n\n\n\nBOOKS OF REFERENCE.\n\n\n    Alecsandri, Vasile. Poesii Populare ale Romanilor. 1867.\n\n    ---- Les Doinas. Poesies Moldaves. 1855.\n\n    Alexander, Francesca. Roadside Songs of Tuscany (in ten parts,\n    edited by John Ruskin, LL.D.). 1885.\n\n    Arbaud, Damase. Chants Populaires de la Provence. 2 vols 1864.\n\n    Armana Provencau. 1870.\n\n    Avolio, Corrado. Canti Popolari di Noto. 1875.\n\n    Bernoni, Dom. Giuseppe. Canti Populari Veneziani. 1873.\n\n    ---- Preghiere Populari Veneziane. 1873.\n\n    ---- Leggende Fantastiche Populari Veneziane. 1873.\n\n    Blade, J. Poesies Populaires de la Gascogne. 3 vols.\n\n    Boullier, Auguste. Le Dialecte et les Chants Populaires de la\n    Sardaigne. 1864.\n\n    Burton, Richard. Wit and Wisdom from West Arica. 1865.\n\n    Cardona, Enrico. Dell' Antica Letteratura Catalana. 1878.\n\n    Champfleury. Chansons Populaires des Provinces de France.\n    1860.\n\n    Comparetti, Prof. D. Saggi de' Dialetti Greci dell' Italia\n    Meridionale. 1866.\n\n    Constantinescu, Dr B. Probe de Limba si Literatura Tiganilor\n    din Romania. 1878.\n\n    Dalmedico, A. Canti del Popolo di Chioggia. 1872.\n\n    ---- Ninne-Nanne e Giuochi Infantile Veneziani. 1871.\n\n    Davies, William. The Pilgrimage of the Tiber. 1874. (Popular\n    Songs of the Tiberine District.)\n\n    D'Ancona, Prof. A. Origini del Teatro in Italia. 2 vols. 1877.\n\n    ---- La Poesia Popolare Italiana. 1878.\n\n    Day, Rev. Lal Behari. Folk-Tales of Bengal. 1883.\n\n    Dorsa, Prof. V. La Tradizione Greco-Latina negli usi e nelle\n    Credenze Popolari della Calabria Citeriore. 2d Ed. 1884.\n\n    Dozon, Auguste. Poesies Populaires Serbes. 1859. ---- Chansons\n    Populaires Bulgares Inedites. 1875.\n\n    Dumersan et Colet. Chants et Chansons Populaires de la France.\n\n    Fauriel, C. Chansons Populaires de la Grece. 2 vols. 1824.\n\n    Ferraro, Dr G. Canti Popolari Monferrini. 1870.\n\n    Fissore, G. Canti Popolari dell' Allemagna. 1857.\n\n    Flugi, Alfons von. Die Volkslieder des Engadin. 1873.\n\n    Gill, Rev. W.W. Myths and Songs from the South Pacific. 1876.\n\n    Gonzenbach, Laura. Sicilianische Maerchen. 1870.\n\n    Gover, Charles E. The Folk-Songs of Southern India. 1872.\n\n    Grimm, Jacob. Deutsche Mythologie. Vierte Ausgabe Besorgt von\n    Elard Hugo Meyer. 3 vols. 1875-7-8.\n\n    Gubernatis, Conte A. de. Storia Comparata degli usi Natalizi\n    in Italia e presso gli altri Popoli Indo-Europei. 1878.\n\n    Imbriani, V., and Casetti, A. Canti Popolari delle Provincie\n    Meridionali. 2 vols. 1871.\n\n    Issaverdenz, Dr G. Armenian Popular Songs. 1867.\n\n    Ive, Antonio. Canti Popolari Istriani. 1877.\n\n    Kolberg, Oskar. Piesni Luder Polskiego. 1857.\n\n    Kuhff, Prof. P. Les Enfantines du \"Bon Pays de France.\" 1878.\n\n    Latham, R.G. The Nationalities of Europe (Estonian Poetry).\n    1863.\n\n    Leger, Louis. Chants Heroiques et Chansons Populaires des\n    Slaves de Boheme. 1866.\n\n    Lizio-Bruno, Prof. Canti Popolari delle Isole Eolie. 1871.\n\n    Mandalari, Mario. Canti del Popolo Reggino. 1881.\n\n    Marcellus, C^te de. Chants Populaires de la Grece Moderne.\n    1860.\n\n    Marcoaldi, Oreste. Canti Popolari inediti. 1855.\n\n    Marmier, X. Chants Populaires du Nord. 1842.\n\n    Moncaut, Cenac. Litterature Populaire de la Gascogne. 1868.\n\n    Morosi, Dr Giuseppe. Studi sui Dialetti Greci della Terra\n    d'Otranto, 1870.\n\n    ---- I Dialetti Romaici del Dialetto di Bova in Calabria.\n    1874.\n\n    Nerucci, G. Sessanta Novelle Popolari Montalesi. 1880.\n\n    Nigra, Conte Constantino. Canzone Popolari del Piemonte.\n    Rivista Contemporanea: fascicoli lxxiv. and lxxxvi. 1860-1.\n\n    Nino, A. de. Usi Abruzzesi. 3 vols. 1879, 1881-3.\n\n\n    Ortoli, Frederic. Les Contes Populaires de l'ile de Corse.\n    1883.\n\n\n    Pellegrini, Prof. Astorre. Il Dialetto Greco-Calabro di Bova.\n    1880.\n\n    ---- La Poesia di Bova. 1881.\n\n    Pitre, Cav. Dr Giuseppe. Studi di Poesia Popolare. 1872.\n\n    ---- Biblioteca delle Tradizioni Popolari Siciliane. 13 vols.\n\n    Ralston, W. R. S. The Songs of the Russian People. 1872.\n\n    Righi, Ettore-Scipione. Canti Popolari Veronesi. 1863.\n\n    Rink, Dr R. Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo. 1875.\n\n    Rosa, Gabriele. Dialetti, Costumi e Tradizioni nelle Provincie\n    di Bergamo e di Brescia. Jerza edizione. 1870.\n\n    Salomone-Marino, S. Canti Popolari Siciliani. 1867.\n\n    Stokes, Maive. Indian Fairy Tales. 1880.\n\n    Symonds, T. Addington. Sketches in Italy and Greece.\n\n    (Popular Songs of Tuscany.) 1874.\n\n    Thorpe, B. Northern Mythology. 1851.\n\n    Tigri, G. Canti Popolari Toscani. Terza ediz. 1869.\n\n    Tommaseo, N. Canti Popolari Toscani, Corsi, Illirici, Greci.\n    1841.\n\n\nTURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\nThis book contains some dialect and/or older grammatical constructions,\nsome old French (and bits of other languages), which have all been\nretained.\n\nFor example:\n\nFootnote 2, Page l (from p. xvii):\n  \"Sire cuens,\"\n    ...\n          \"C'est vilanie;\" ('T was villany:)\n    ...\n  \"Ma feme ne me rit mie.\"\n    ...\n  \"Vez com vostre male plie,\n  Ele est bien de vent farsie.\"\n    ...\n  Deux chapons por deporter\n          A la sause aillie;\n  etc.\n\n\nPage 20: 'the girl leaning out of window to tell her piece of news' is\nas printed. The transcriber does not know if 'a window' or 'the window'\nor just 'window' was intended.\n\nPage 24: 'Nella' would be the genitive of 'Nello'.\nIn some European languages, the Proper nouns are also declined.\n[\"... it is Count Nello, my father, he who fain would wed\nme.\" \"Who speaks of Count Nella....\"]\n\nPage 145: \"E te' cca 'na timpulata!\" occurs in another document as:\n\"E te 'cca 'na timpulata!\", and in another as \"E te' 'cca 'na timpulata!\"\n\nMany French accents are missing from the English text, e.g.\nPage 181: \"Mistral ... paints the Provence of the valley of the Rhone, ...\"\n\nPage 335: 'compact' is correct; = 'agreement'.\n(Apparently she took the advice and kept the compact)\n\nPage 348: \"nni\" in \"Lu me rifugiu nni la sorti orrenna,\" is as printed.\nIt may not be an error.\n\n\nThis book also contains some Greek words, and passages of Greek.\nwhich have been transliterated into Latin text, e.g. [Greek: nenitos]\n\n\nErrata:\n\nSundry damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired.\n\nPage 62: 'portait' corrected to 'portrait'.\n(he might at least possess his portrait).\n\nPage 84: 'befel' corrected to 'befell'.\n(the fate that befell a French professorship of Armenian)\n\nPage 172: 'hushand' corrected to 'husband'.\n(and shortly after her husband had extricated her she became a mother).\n\nPage 226: 'daugher' corrected to 'daughter'.\n(\"And a cup of poison, my daughter.\")\n\nPage 335: 'compact' is correct. = 'agreement'.\n(Apparently she took the advice and kept the compact,)\n\nPage 335: n[~i]na corrected to nina.\n(A dormir va mi nina).\n\nPage 337: \"wee Willie Winkile\" corrected to \"wee Willie Winkie\"\n(\"wee Willie Winkie\" who runs upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown:)\n\nPage 341: 'cardle' corrected to 'cradle'.\n(aunt has taken baby from his cradle)\n\nPage 343: 'The' corrected to 'They'.\n(They are often called \"certi signuri,\")\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Essays in the Study of Folk-Songs (1886)","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":117525}