Hush! lulla, lullaby! So mother sings;For hearken, 'tis the midnight bell that rings.But, darling, not thy mother's bell is this:St Lucy's priests it calls to prayer, I wis.St Lucy gave thee eyes—a matchless pair—And gave the Magdalen her golden hair;Thy cheeks their hue from heaven's angels have;Her little loving mouth St Martha gave.Love's mouth, sweet mouth, that Florence hath for home,Now tell me where love springs, and how doth come?...With music and with song doth love arise,And then its end it hath in tears and sighs.
Hush! lulla, lullaby! So mother sings;For hearken, 'tis the midnight bell that rings.But, darling, not thy mother's bell is this:St Lucy's priests it calls to prayer, I wis.St Lucy gave thee eyes—a matchless pair—And gave the Magdalen her golden hair;Thy cheeks their hue from heaven's angels have;Her little loving mouth St Martha gave.Love's mouth, sweet mouth, that Florence hath for home,Now tell me where love springs, and how doth come?...With music and with song doth love arise,And then its end it hath in tears and sighs.
Hush! lulla, lullaby! So mother sings;
For hearken, 'tis the midnight bell that rings.
But, darling, not thy mother's bell is this:
St Lucy's priests it calls to prayer, I wis.
St Lucy gave thee eyes—a matchless pair—
And gave the Magdalen her golden hair;
Thy cheeks their hue from heaven's angels have;
Her little loving mouth St Martha gave.
Love's mouth, sweet mouth, that Florence hath for home,
Now tell me where love springs, and how doth come?...
With music and with song doth love arise,
And then its end it hath in tears and sighs.
The question and answer as to the beginning and end of love run through all the songs of Italy, and in nearly every case the reply proceeds from Florence.The personality of the answerer changes: sometimes it is a little wild bird; on one occasion it is a preacher. And the idea has been suggested that the last is the original form, and that the Preacher of Florence who preaches against love is none other than Jeronimo Savonarola.
In an Istriot variant of the above song, "Santa Luceîa" is spoken of as the Madonna of the eyes; "Santa Puluonia" as the Madonna of the teeth: we hear also something of the Magdalene's old shoes and of the white lilies she bears in her hands. It is not always quite clear upon what principle the folk-poet shapes his descriptions of religious personages; if the gifts and belongings he attributes to them are at times purely conventional, at others they seem to rest on no authority, legendary or historic. Most likely his ideas as to the personal appearance of such or such a saint are formed by the paintings in the church where he is accustomed to go to mass; it is probable, too, that he is fond of talking of the patrons of his village or of the next village, whose names are associated with thefeste, which as long as he can recollect have constituted the great annual events of his life. But two or three saints have a popularity independent of local circumstance. One of these is Lucy, whom the people celebrate with equal enthusiasm from her native Syracuse to the port of Pola. Perhaps the maiden patroness of the blessed faculty of vision has come to be thought of as a sort of gracious embodiment of that which her name signifies: of the sweet light which to the southerner is not a mere helpmate in the performance of daily tasks, but a providential luxury. Concerning the earthly career of theirfavourite, her peasant votaries have vague notions: once when a French traveller in the Apennines suggested that St Januarius might be jealous of her praises, he received the answer, "Ma che, excellenza, St Lucy was St Januarius' wife!"
In Greece we find other saints invoked over the baby's cradle. The Greek of modern times has his face, his mind, his heart, set in an undeviating eastward position. To holy wisdom and to Marina, the Alexandrian martyr, the Greek mother confides her cradled darling:
Put him to bed, St Marina; send him to sleep, St Sophia! Take him out abroad that he may see how the trees flower and how the birds sing; then come back and bring him with you, that his father may not ask for him, may not beat his servants, that his mother may not seek him in vain, for she would weep and fall sick, and her milk would turn bitter.
Put him to bed, St Marina; send him to sleep, St Sophia! Take him out abroad that he may see how the trees flower and how the birds sing; then come back and bring him with you, that his father may not ask for him, may not beat his servants, that his mother may not seek him in vain, for she would weep and fall sick, and her milk would turn bitter.
At Gessopalena, in the province of Chieti (Abruzzo Citeriore) there would seem to be much faith in numbers. Luke and Andrew, Michael and Joseph, Hyacinth and Matthew are called in, and as if these were not enough to nurse one baby, a summons is sent toSant Giusaffat, who, as is well known, is neither more nor less than Buddha introduced into the Catholic calendar.
Another of Signor Dal Medico'sninne-nannepresents several points of interest:
O Sleep, O Sleep, O thou beguiler, Sleep,Beguile this child, and in beguilement keep,Keep him three hours, and keep him moments three;Until I call beguile this child for me.And when I call I'll call:—My root, my heart,The people say my only wealth thou art.Thou art my only wealth; I tell thee so.Now, bit by bit, this boy to sleep will go;He falls and falls to sleeping bit by bit,Like the green wood what time the fire is lit,Like to green wood that never flame can dart,Heart of thy mother, of thy father heart!Like to green wood, that never flame can shoot.Sleep thou, my cradled hope, sleep thou, my root,My cradled hope, my spirit's strength and stay;Mother, who bore thee, wears her life away;Her life she wears away, and all day longShe goes a-singing to her child this song.
O Sleep, O Sleep, O thou beguiler, Sleep,Beguile this child, and in beguilement keep,Keep him three hours, and keep him moments three;Until I call beguile this child for me.And when I call I'll call:—My root, my heart,The people say my only wealth thou art.Thou art my only wealth; I tell thee so.Now, bit by bit, this boy to sleep will go;He falls and falls to sleeping bit by bit,Like the green wood what time the fire is lit,Like to green wood that never flame can dart,Heart of thy mother, of thy father heart!Like to green wood, that never flame can shoot.Sleep thou, my cradled hope, sleep thou, my root,My cradled hope, my spirit's strength and stay;Mother, who bore thee, wears her life away;Her life she wears away, and all day longShe goes a-singing to her child this song.
O Sleep, O Sleep, O thou beguiler, Sleep,
Beguile this child, and in beguilement keep,
Keep him three hours, and keep him moments three;
Until I call beguile this child for me.
And when I call I'll call:—My root, my heart,
The people say my only wealth thou art.
Thou art my only wealth; I tell thee so.
Now, bit by bit, this boy to sleep will go;
He falls and falls to sleeping bit by bit,
Like the green wood what time the fire is lit,
Like to green wood that never flame can dart,
Heart of thy mother, of thy father heart!
Like to green wood, that never flame can shoot.
Sleep thou, my cradled hope, sleep thou, my root,
My cradled hope, my spirit's strength and stay;
Mother, who bore thee, wears her life away;
Her life she wears away, and all day long
She goes a-singing to her child this song.
Now, in the first place, the comparison of the child's gradual falling asleep with the slow ignition of fresh-cut wood is the common property of all the populations whose ethnical centre of gravity lies in Venice. I have seen an Istriot version of it, and I heard it sung by a countrywoman at San Martino di Castrozza in the Trentino; so that, at all event,Italia redentaandirredentahas a community of song. The second thing that calls for remark is the direct invocation of sleep. A distinct little group of cradle ditties displays this characteristic. "Come, sleep," cries the Grecian mother, "come, sleep, take him away; come sleep, and make him slumber. Carry him to the vineyard of the Aga, to the gardens of the Aga. The Aga will give him grapes; his wife, roses; his servant, pancakes." A second Greek lullaby must have sprung from a luxuriant imagination. It comes from Schio:
Sleep, carry off my son, o'er whom three sentinels do watch,Three sentinels, three warders brave, three mates you cannot match.These guards: the sun upon the hill, the eagle on the plain,And Boreas, whose chilly blasts do hurry o'er the main.—The sun went down into the west, the eagle sank to sleep,Chill Boreas to his mother sped across the briny deep."My son, where were you yesterday? Where on the former night?Or with the moon or with the stars did you contend in fight?Or with Orion did you strive—though him I deem a friend?""Nor with the stars, nor with the moon, did I in strife contend,Nor with Orion did I fight, whom for your friend I hold,But guarded in a silver cot a child as bright as gold."
Sleep, carry off my son, o'er whom three sentinels do watch,Three sentinels, three warders brave, three mates you cannot match.These guards: the sun upon the hill, the eagle on the plain,And Boreas, whose chilly blasts do hurry o'er the main.—The sun went down into the west, the eagle sank to sleep,Chill Boreas to his mother sped across the briny deep."My son, where were you yesterday? Where on the former night?Or with the moon or with the stars did you contend in fight?Or with Orion did you strive—though him I deem a friend?""Nor with the stars, nor with the moon, did I in strife contend,Nor with Orion did I fight, whom for your friend I hold,But guarded in a silver cot a child as bright as gold."
Sleep, carry off my son, o'er whom three sentinels do watch,
Three sentinels, three warders brave, three mates you cannot match.
These guards: the sun upon the hill, the eagle on the plain,
And Boreas, whose chilly blasts do hurry o'er the main.
—The sun went down into the west, the eagle sank to sleep,
Chill Boreas to his mother sped across the briny deep.
"My son, where were you yesterday? Where on the former night?
Or with the moon or with the stars did you contend in fight?
Or with Orion did you strive—though him I deem a friend?"
"Nor with the stars, nor with the moon, did I in strife contend,
Nor with Orion did I fight, whom for your friend I hold,
But guarded in a silver cot a child as bright as gold."
The Greeks have a curious way of looking at sleep: they seem absorbed in the thought of what dreams may come—if indeed the word dream rightly describes their conception of that which happens to the soul while the body takes its rest—if they do not rather cling to some vague notion of a real severance between matter and spirit during sleep.
The mothers of La Bresse (near Lyons) invoke sleep under the name of "le souin-souin." I wish I could give here the sweet, inedited melody which accompanies these lines:
Le poupon voudrait bien domir;Le souin-souin ne veut pas venir.Souin-souin, vené, vené, vené;Souin-souin, vené, vené, donc!
Le poupon voudrait bien domir;Le souin-souin ne veut pas venir.Souin-souin, vené, vené, vené;Souin-souin, vené, vené, donc!
Le poupon voudrait bien domir;
Le souin-souin ne veut pas venir.
Souin-souin, vené, vené, vené;
Souin-souin, vené, vené, donc!
The Chippewaya Indians were in the habit of personifying sleep as an immense insect called Weeng, which someone once saw at the top of a tree engaged in making a buzzing noise with its wings. Weeng produced sleep by sending fairies, who beat the foreheads of tired mortals with very small clubs.
Sleep acts the part of questioner in the lullaby of the Finland peasant woman, who sings to her child in its bark cradle: "Sleep, little field bird; sleep sweetly, pretty redbreast. God will wake thee whenit is time. Sleep is at the door, and says to me, 'Is not there a sweet child here who fain would sleep? a young child wrapped in swaddling clothes, a fair child resting beneath his woollen coverlet?'" A questioning sleep makes his appearance likewise in a Sicilianninna:—
My little son, I wish you well, your mother's comfort when in grief.My pretty boy, what can I do? Will you not give one hour's relief?Sleep has just past, and me he asked if this my son in slumber lay.Close, close your little eyes, my child; send your sweet breath far leagues away.You are the fount of rose water; you are with every beauty fraught.Sleep, darling son, my pretty one, my golden button richly wrought.
My little son, I wish you well, your mother's comfort when in grief.My pretty boy, what can I do? Will you not give one hour's relief?Sleep has just past, and me he asked if this my son in slumber lay.Close, close your little eyes, my child; send your sweet breath far leagues away.You are the fount of rose water; you are with every beauty fraught.Sleep, darling son, my pretty one, my golden button richly wrought.
My little son, I wish you well, your mother's comfort when in grief.
My pretty boy, what can I do? Will you not give one hour's relief?
Sleep has just past, and me he asked if this my son in slumber lay.
Close, close your little eyes, my child; send your sweet breath far leagues away.
You are the fount of rose water; you are with every beauty fraught.
Sleep, darling son, my pretty one, my golden button richly wrought.
A vein of tender reproach is sprung in that inquiry, "Ca n' ura ri riposu 'un vuo rari?" The mother appeals to the better feeling, to the Christian charity as it were, of the small but implacable tyrant. Another time she waxes yet more eloquent. "Son, my comfort, I am not happy. There are women who laugh and enjoy themselves while I chafe my very life out. Listen to me, child; beautiful is the lullaby and all the folk are asleep—but thou, no! My wise little son, I look about for thy equal; nowhere do I find him. Thou art mamma's consolation. There, do sleep just a little while." So pleads the Sicilian; her Venetian sister tries to soften the obduracy of her infant by still more plaintive remonstrances. "Hushaby; but if thou dost not sleep, hear me. Thouhast robbed me of my heart and of all my sentiments. I really do not know for what cause thou lamentest, and never will have done lamenting." On this occasion the appeal seems to be made to some purpose, for the song concludes, "The eyes of my joy are closing; they open a little and then they shut. Now is my joy at peace with me and no longer at war." So happy an issue does not always arrive. It may happen that the perverse babe flatly refuses to listen to the mother's voice, sing she never so sweetly. Perhaps he might have something to say for himself could he but speak, at any rate in the matter of mid-day slumbers. It must no doubt be rather trying to be called upon to go straight to sleep just when the sunbeams are dancing round and round and wildly inviting you to make your first studies in optics. Most often the long-suffering mother, if she does not see things in this light, acts as though she did. Her patience has no limit; her caresses are never done; with untiring love she watches the little wakeful, wilful culprit—
Chi piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia....
Chi piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia....
Chi piangendo e ridendo pargoleggia....
But it is not always so; there are times when she loses all patience, and temper into the bargain. Such a contingency is only too faithfully reflected in a Sicilianninnawhich ends with the utterance of a horrible wish that Doctor Death would come and quiet the recalcitrant baby once for all. I ought to add that this same murderous lullaby is nevertheless brimful of protestations of affection and compliments; the child is told that his eyes are the finest imaginable, his cheeks two roses, his countenancelike the moon's. The amount of incense which the Sicilian mother burns before her offspring would suffice to fill any number of cathedrals. Every moment she breaks forth into words such as, "Hush! child of my breath, bunch of jasmine, handful of oranges and lemons; go to sleep, my son, my beauty: I have got to take thy portrait." It has been remarked that a person who resembled an orange would scarcely be very attractive, whence it is inferred that the comparison came into fashion at the date when the orange tree was first introduced into Sicily and when its fruit was esteemed a rare novelty. A little girl is described as a spray of lilies and a bouquet of roses. A little boy is assured that his mother prefers him to gold or fine silver. If she lost him where would she find a beloved son like to him? A child dropped out of heaven, a laurel garland, one under whose feet spring up flowers? Here is a string of blandishments prettily wound up in a prayer:
Hush, my little round-faced daughter; thou art like the stormy sea.Daughter mine of finest amber, godmother sends sleep to thee.Fair thy name, and he who gave it was a gallant gentleman.Mirror of my soul, I marvel when thy loveliness I scan.Flame of love, be good. I love thee better far than life I love.Now my child sleeps. Mother Mary, look upon her from above.
Hush, my little round-faced daughter; thou art like the stormy sea.Daughter mine of finest amber, godmother sends sleep to thee.Fair thy name, and he who gave it was a gallant gentleman.Mirror of my soul, I marvel when thy loveliness I scan.Flame of love, be good. I love thee better far than life I love.Now my child sleeps. Mother Mary, look upon her from above.
Hush, my little round-faced daughter; thou art like the stormy sea.
Daughter mine of finest amber, godmother sends sleep to thee.
Fair thy name, and he who gave it was a gallant gentleman.
Mirror of my soul, I marvel when thy loveliness I scan.
Flame of love, be good. I love thee better far than life I love.
Now my child sleeps. Mother Mary, look upon her from above.
The form taken by parental flattery shows the tastes of nations and of individuals. The other day a young and successful English artist was heard to exclaim with profound conviction, whilst contemplating his son and heir, twenty-four hours old, "There is a great deal oftoneabout that baby!"
The Hungarian nurse tells her charge that his cot must be of rosewood and his swaddling clothes of rainbow threads spun by angels. The evening breeze is to rock him, the kiss of the falling star to awake him; she would have the breath of the lily touch him gently, and the butterflies fan him with their brilliant wings. Like the Sicilian, the Magyar has an innate love of splendour.
Corsica has aninna-nannainto which the whole genius of its people seems to have passed. The village,fêtes, with dancing and music, the flocks and herds and sheep-dogs, even the mountains, stars, and sea, and the perfumed air off themacchi, come back to the traveller in that island as he reads—
Hushaby, my darling boy;Hushaby, my hope and joy.You're my little ship so braveSailing boldly o'er the wave;One that tempests doth not fear,Nor the winds that blow from high.Sleep awhile, my baby dear;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.Gold and pearls my vessel lade,Silk and cloth the cargo be,All the sails are of brocadeComing from beyond the sea;And the helm of finest gold,Made a wonder to behold.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.After you were born full soonYou were christened all aright;Godmother she was the moon,Godfather the sun so bright;All the stars in heaven toldWore their necklaces of gold.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.Pure and balmy was the air,Lustrous all the heavens were;And the seven planets shedAll their virtues on your head;And the shepherds made a feastLasting for a week at least.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.Nought was heard but minstrelsy,Nought but dancing met the eye,In Cassoni's vale and woodAnd in all the neighbourhood;Hawk and Blacklip, stanch and true,Feasted in their fashion too.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.Older years when you attain,You will roam o'er field and plain;Meadows will with flowers be gay,And with oil the fountains play,And the salt and bitter seaInto balsam changèd be.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.And these mountains, wild and steep,Will be crowded o'er with sheep,And the wild goat and the deerWill be tame and void of fear;Vulture, fox, and beast of prey,From these bounds shall flee away.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.You are savory, sweetly blowing,You are thyme, of incense smelling,Upon Mount Basella growing,Upon Mount Cassoni dwelling;You the hyacinth of the rocksWhich is pasture for the flocks.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Hushaby, my darling boy;Hushaby, my hope and joy.You're my little ship so braveSailing boldly o'er the wave;One that tempests doth not fear,Nor the winds that blow from high.Sleep awhile, my baby dear;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Hushaby, my darling boy;
Hushaby, my hope and joy.
You're my little ship so brave
Sailing boldly o'er the wave;
One that tempests doth not fear,
Nor the winds that blow from high.
Sleep awhile, my baby dear;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Gold and pearls my vessel lade,Silk and cloth the cargo be,All the sails are of brocadeComing from beyond the sea;And the helm of finest gold,Made a wonder to behold.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Gold and pearls my vessel lade,
Silk and cloth the cargo be,
All the sails are of brocade
Coming from beyond the sea;
And the helm of finest gold,
Made a wonder to behold.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
After you were born full soonYou were christened all aright;Godmother she was the moon,Godfather the sun so bright;All the stars in heaven toldWore their necklaces of gold.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
After you were born full soon
You were christened all aright;
Godmother she was the moon,
Godfather the sun so bright;
All the stars in heaven told
Wore their necklaces of gold.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Pure and balmy was the air,Lustrous all the heavens were;And the seven planets shedAll their virtues on your head;And the shepherds made a feastLasting for a week at least.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Pure and balmy was the air,
Lustrous all the heavens were;
And the seven planets shed
All their virtues on your head;
And the shepherds made a feast
Lasting for a week at least.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Nought was heard but minstrelsy,Nought but dancing met the eye,In Cassoni's vale and woodAnd in all the neighbourhood;Hawk and Blacklip, stanch and true,Feasted in their fashion too.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Nought was heard but minstrelsy,
Nought but dancing met the eye,
In Cassoni's vale and wood
And in all the neighbourhood;
Hawk and Blacklip, stanch and true,
Feasted in their fashion too.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Older years when you attain,You will roam o'er field and plain;Meadows will with flowers be gay,And with oil the fountains play,And the salt and bitter seaInto balsam changèd be.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Older years when you attain,
You will roam o'er field and plain;
Meadows will with flowers be gay,
And with oil the fountains play,
And the salt and bitter sea
Into balsam changèd be.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
And these mountains, wild and steep,Will be crowded o'er with sheep,And the wild goat and the deerWill be tame and void of fear;Vulture, fox, and beast of prey,From these bounds shall flee away.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
And these mountains, wild and steep,
Will be crowded o'er with sheep,
And the wild goat and the deer
Will be tame and void of fear;
Vulture, fox, and beast of prey,
From these bounds shall flee away.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
You are savory, sweetly blowing,You are thyme, of incense smelling,Upon Mount Basella growing,Upon Mount Cassoni dwelling;You the hyacinth of the rocksWhich is pasture for the flocks.Fast awhile in slumber lie;Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
You are savory, sweetly blowing,
You are thyme, of incense smelling,
Upon Mount Basella growing,
Upon Mount Cassoni dwelling;
You the hyacinth of the rocks
Which is pasture for the flocks.
Fast awhile in slumber lie;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
At the sight of a new-born babe the Corsican involuntarily sets to work making auguries. The mountain shepherds place great faith in divination based on the examination of the shoulder-blades of animals: according to the local tradition the famous prophecy of the greatness of Napoleon was drawn up after this method. The nomad tribes of Central Asia search the future in precisely the same way. Corsican lullabies are often prophetical. An old woman predicts a strange sort of millennium, to begin with the coming of age of her grandson:
"There grew a boy in Palneca of Pumonti, and his dear grandmother was always rocking his cradle, always wishing him this destiny:—"Sleep, O little one, thy grandmother's joy and gladness, for I have to prepare the supper for thy dear little father, and thy elder brothers, and I have to make their clothes."When thou art older, thou wilt traverse the plains, the grass will turn to flowers, the sea-water will become sweet balm."We will make thee a jacket edged with red and turned up in points, and a little peaked hat, trimmed with gold braid."When thou art bigger, thou wilt carry arms; neither soldier nor gendarme will frighten thee, and if thou art driven up into a corner, thou wilt make a famous bandit."Never did woman of our race pass thirteen years unwed, for when an impertinent fellow dared so much as look at her, he escaped not two weeks unless he gave her the ring."But that scoundrel of Morando surprised the kinsfolk, arrested them all in one day, and wrought their ruin. And the thieves of Palneca played the spy."Fifteen men were hung, all in the market-place: men of great worth, the flower of our race. Perhaps it will be thou, O dearest! who shall accomplish the vendetta!"
"There grew a boy in Palneca of Pumonti, and his dear grandmother was always rocking his cradle, always wishing him this destiny:—"Sleep, O little one, thy grandmother's joy and gladness, for I have to prepare the supper for thy dear little father, and thy elder brothers, and I have to make their clothes."When thou art older, thou wilt traverse the plains, the grass will turn to flowers, the sea-water will become sweet balm."We will make thee a jacket edged with red and turned up in points, and a little peaked hat, trimmed with gold braid."When thou art bigger, thou wilt carry arms; neither soldier nor gendarme will frighten thee, and if thou art driven up into a corner, thou wilt make a famous bandit."Never did woman of our race pass thirteen years unwed, for when an impertinent fellow dared so much as look at her, he escaped not two weeks unless he gave her the ring."But that scoundrel of Morando surprised the kinsfolk, arrested them all in one day, and wrought their ruin. And the thieves of Palneca played the spy."Fifteen men were hung, all in the market-place: men of great worth, the flower of our race. Perhaps it will be thou, O dearest! who shall accomplish the vendetta!"
"There grew a boy in Palneca of Pumonti, and his dear grandmother was always rocking his cradle, always wishing him this destiny:—
"Sleep, O little one, thy grandmother's joy and gladness, for I have to prepare the supper for thy dear little father, and thy elder brothers, and I have to make their clothes.
"When thou art older, thou wilt traverse the plains, the grass will turn to flowers, the sea-water will become sweet balm.
"We will make thee a jacket edged with red and turned up in points, and a little peaked hat, trimmed with gold braid.
"When thou art bigger, thou wilt carry arms; neither soldier nor gendarme will frighten thee, and if thou art driven up into a corner, thou wilt make a famous bandit.
"Never did woman of our race pass thirteen years unwed, for when an impertinent fellow dared so much as look at her, he escaped not two weeks unless he gave her the ring.
"But that scoundrel of Morando surprised the kinsfolk, arrested them all in one day, and wrought their ruin. And the thieves of Palneca played the spy.
"Fifteen men were hung, all in the market-place: men of great worth, the flower of our race. Perhaps it will be thou, O dearest! who shall accomplish the vendetta!"
An unexpected yet logical development leads from the peaceful household cares, the joyous images of the familiar song, the playful picture of the baby boy in jacket and pointed hat, to a terrible recollection of deeds of shame and blood, long past, and perhaps half-forgotten by the rest of the family, but at which the old dame's breast still burns as she rocks the sleeping babe on whom is fixed her last passionate hope of vengeance fulfilled.
In the mountain villages scattered about the borders of the vast Sila forest, Calabrian mothers whisper to their babes, "brigantiellu miu, brigantiellu della mamma." They tell the little ones gathered round their knees legends of Fra Diavolo and of Talarico, just as Sardinian mothers tell the legend of Tolu of Florinas. This last is a story of to-day. In 1850, Giovanni Tolu married the niece of the priest's housekeeper. The priest opposed the marriage, and soon after it had taken place, in the absence of Tolu, he persuaded the young wife to leave her husband's house, never to return. Tolu, meeting his enemy in a lonely path, fired his pistol, but by some accident it did not go off, and the priest escaped with his life. Arrest and certain conviction, however, awaited Tolu, who preferred to take to the woods, where he remained for thirty years, a prince among outlaws. He protected the weak; administered a rude but wise justiceto the scattered peasants of the waste country between Sassari and the sea; his swift horse was always ready to fly in search of their lost or stolen cattle; his gun was the terror of the thieves who preyed upon these poor people. In Osilo lived two families, hereditary foes, the Stacca and the Achena. An Achena offered Tolu five hundred francs to kill the head of the Stacca family. Tolu not only refused, he did not rest till he had brought about a reconciliation between the two houses. At last, in the autumn of 1880, the gendarmes, after thirty years' failure, arrested Tolu without a struggle at a place where he had gone to take part in a countryfesta. For two years he was kept untried in prison. In September 1882 he was brought before the Court of Assize at Frosinone. Not a witness could be found to testify against him. "Tolu," they said, "è un Dio." When asked by the President what he had to say in his defence, he replied: "I never fired first. The carabineers hunted me like a wild beast, because a price was set on my head, and like a wild beast I defended myself." The jury brought in a verdict of acquittal; and if any one wishes to make our hero's acquaintance, he has only to take ship for Sardinia and then find the way to the village of Florinas, where he is now peaceably living, beloved and respected by all who know him.
The Sardinian character has old-world virtues and old-world blemishes; if you live in the wilder districts you may deem it advisable to keep a loaded pistol on the table at meal-time; but then you may go all over the island without letters of introduction, sure of a hearty welcome, and an hospitality which gives to the stranger the best of everything that there is. If theSardinian has an imperfect apprehension of the sacredness of other laws, he is blindly obedient to that of custom; when some progressive measure is proposed, he does not argue—he says quietly: "Custu non est secundu la moda nostra." No man sweeps the dust on antique time less than he. One of his distinctive traits is an overweening fondness of his children; the ever-marvellous baby is represented not only as the glory of its mother, but also as the light even of its most distant connexions—
Lullaby, sweet lullaby,You our happiness supply;Fair your face, and sweet your ways,You, your mother's pride and praise.As the coral, rare and bright,In your life does father live;You, of all the dear delight,All around you pleasure give.All your ways, my pretty boy,Of your parents are the joy;You were born for good alone,Sunshine of the family!Wise, and kind to every one.Light of every kinsman's eye;Light of all who hither come,And the gladness of our home.Lullaby, sweet lullaby.
Lullaby, sweet lullaby,You our happiness supply;Fair your face, and sweet your ways,You, your mother's pride and praise.As the coral, rare and bright,In your life does father live;You, of all the dear delight,All around you pleasure give.
Lullaby, sweet lullaby,
You our happiness supply;
Fair your face, and sweet your ways,
You, your mother's pride and praise.
As the coral, rare and bright,
In your life does father live;
You, of all the dear delight,
All around you pleasure give.
All your ways, my pretty boy,Of your parents are the joy;You were born for good alone,Sunshine of the family!Wise, and kind to every one.Light of every kinsman's eye;Light of all who hither come,And the gladness of our home.Lullaby, sweet lullaby.
All your ways, my pretty boy,
Of your parents are the joy;
You were born for good alone,
Sunshine of the family!
Wise, and kind to every one.
Light of every kinsman's eye;
Light of all who hither come,
And the gladness of our home.
Lullaby, sweet lullaby.
On the northern shore the people speak a tongue akin to that of the neighbouring isle, and the dialect of the south is semi-Spanish; but in the midland Logudoro the old Sard speech is spoken much as it is known to have been spoken a thousand years ago. It is simply a rustic Latin. Canon Spano's loving rather than critical labours have left Sardinia a finefield for some future folk-lore collector. The Sardinian is short in speech, copious in song. I asked a lad, just returned to Venetia from working in Sardinian quarries, if the people there had many songs? "Oh! tanti!" he answered, with a gesture more expressive than the words. He had brought back more than a touch of that malarious fever which is the scourge of the island and a blight upon all efforts to develop its rich resources. A Sardinian friend tells me that the Sard poet often shows a complete contempt for metrical rules; his poesy is apt to become a rhythmic chant of which the words and music cannot be dissevered. But the Logudorian lullabies are regular in form, their distinguishing feature being an interjection with an almost classical ring that replaces thefa la nannaof Italy—
Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, baby boy;Oh! ninna and anninia!God give thee joy.Oh! ninna and anninia!Sweet joy be thine;Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, brother mine.Sleep, and do not cry,Pretty, pretty one,Apple of mine eye,Danger there is none;Sleep, for I am by,Mother's darling son.Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, baby boy;Oh! ninna and anninia!God give thee joy.Oh! ninna and anninia!Sweet joy be thine;Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, brother mine.
Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, baby boy;Oh! ninna and anninia!God give thee joy.Oh! ninna and anninia!Sweet joy be thine;Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, brother mine.
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sleep, baby boy;
Oh! ninna and anninia!
God give thee joy.
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sweet joy be thine;
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sleep, brother mine.
Sleep, and do not cry,Pretty, pretty one,Apple of mine eye,Danger there is none;Sleep, for I am by,Mother's darling son.
Sleep, and do not cry,
Pretty, pretty one,
Apple of mine eye,
Danger there is none;
Sleep, for I am by,
Mother's darling son.
Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, baby boy;Oh! ninna and anninia!God give thee joy.Oh! ninna and anninia!Sweet joy be thine;Oh! ninna and anninia!Sleep, brother mine.
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sleep, baby boy;
Oh! ninna and anninia!
God give thee joy.
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sweet joy be thine;
Oh! ninna and anninia!
Sleep, brother mine.
The singer is the little mother-sister: the child who, while the mother works in the fields or goes to market, is left in charge of the last-come member of the family, and is bound to console it as best she may, for the absence of its natural guardian. The baby is to her somewhat of a doll, just as to the children of the rich the doll is somewhat of a baby. She may be met without going far afield; anyone who has lived near an English village must know the curly-headed little girl who sits on the cottage door-step or among the meadow buttercups, her arms stretched at full length, round a soft, black-eyed creature, small indeed, yet not much smaller than herself. This, she solemnly informs you, is her baby. Not quite so often can she be seen now as before the passing of the Education Act, prior to which all truants fell back on the triumphant excuse, "I can't go to school because I have to mind my baby," some neighbouring infant brother, cousin, nephew, being producible at a moment's notice in support of the assertion. In those days the mere sight of a baby filled persons interested in the promotion of public instruction with wrath and suspicion. Yet womanhood would lose a sweet and sympathetic phase were the little mother-sister to wholly disappear. The songs of the child-nurse are of the slenderest kind; the tether of her imagination has not been cut by hope or memory. As a rule she dwells upon the important fact that mother will soon be here, andwhen she has said that, she has not much more to say. So it is in an Istriot song: "This is a child who is always crying; be quiet, my soul, for mother is coming back; she will bring thee nice milk, and then she will put thee in the crib to hushaby." A Tuscan correspondent sends me a sister-rhyme which is introduced by a pretty description of the grave-eyed little maiden, of twelve or thirteen years perhaps, responsible almost to sadness, who leans down her face over the baby brother she is rocking in the cradle; and when he stirs and begins to cry, sings softly the oft-told tale of how the dear mamma will come quickly and press him lovingly to her breast:
Che fa mai col volto chino,Quella tacita fanciulla?Sta vegliando il fratellino,Adagiato nella culla.Ed il pargolo se desta,E il meschino prorompe in pianto,La bambina, mesta, mesta,Vuol chetarlo col suo canto:Bambolino mio, riposa,Presto mamma tornerà;Cara mamma che amorosaAl suo sen ti stringerà.
Che fa mai col volto chino,Quella tacita fanciulla?Sta vegliando il fratellino,Adagiato nella culla.
Che fa mai col volto chino,
Quella tacita fanciulla?
Sta vegliando il fratellino,
Adagiato nella culla.
Ed il pargolo se desta,E il meschino prorompe in pianto,La bambina, mesta, mesta,Vuol chetarlo col suo canto:
Ed il pargolo se desta,
E il meschino prorompe in pianto,
La bambina, mesta, mesta,
Vuol chetarlo col suo canto:
Bambolino mio, riposa,Presto mamma tornerà;Cara mamma che amorosaAl suo sen ti stringerà.
Bambolino mio, riposa,
Presto mamma tornerà;
Cara mamma che amorosa
Al suo sen ti stringerà.
The little French girl turns her thoughts to the hot milk and chocolate that are being prepared, and of which she no doubt expects to have a share:—
Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frère,Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo.Le papa est en haut, qui fait le lolo,Le maman est en bas, qui fait le colo;Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frèreFais dodo.
Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frère,Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo.Le papa est en haut, qui fait le lolo,Le maman est en bas, qui fait le colo;Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frèreFais dodo.
Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frère,
Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo.
Le papa est en haut, qui fait le lolo,
Le maman est en bas, qui fait le colo;
Fais dodo, Colin, mon p'tit frère
Fais dodo.
In enumerating the rewards for infantine virtue—which is sleep—I must not forget the celebrated hare's skin to be presented to Baby Bunting, and the "little fishy" that the English father, set to be nursead interim, promises his "babby" when the ship comes in; nor should I pass over the hopes raised in an inedited cradle song of French Flanders, which opens, like the Tuscan lullaby, with a short narration:
Un jour un' pauv' dentillièreEn amicliton ch'un petiot garchun,Qui d'puis le matin n'fesions que blaìre,Voulait l'endormir par une canchun.
Un jour un' pauv' dentillièreEn amicliton ch'un petiot garchun,Qui d'puis le matin n'fesions que blaìre,Voulait l'endormir par une canchun.
Un jour un' pauv' dentillière
En amicliton ch'un petiot garchun,
Qui d'puis le matin n'fesions que blaìre,
Voulait l'endormir par une canchun.
In this barbarouspatios, the poor lace-maker tells her "p'tit pocchin" (little chick) that to-morrow he shall have a cake made of honey, spices, and rye flour; that he shall be dressed in his best clothes "com' un bieau milord;" and that at "la Ducasse," a localfête, she will buy him a laughable Polchinello and a bird-organ playing the tune of the sugar-loaf hat. Toys are also promised in a Japanese lullaby, which the kindness of the late author of "Child-life in Japan" has enabled me to give in the original:
Nén-ne ko yō—nén-né ko yōNén-né no mori wa—doko ye yutaAno yama koyété—sato ye yutaSato no miyagé ni—nani morotaTén-tén taiko ni—shō no fuyéOki-agari koboshima—ìnu hari-ko.
Nén-ne ko yō—nén-né ko yōNén-né no mori wa—doko ye yutaAno yama koyété—sato ye yutaSato no miyagé ni—nani morotaTén-tén taiko ni—shō no fuyéOki-agari koboshima—ìnu hari-ko.
Nén-ne ko yō—nén-né ko yō
Nén-né no mori wa—doko ye yuta
Ano yama koyété—sato ye yuta
Sato no miyagé ni—nani morota
Tén-tén taiko ni—shō no fuyé
Oki-agari koboshima—ìnu hari-ko.
Signifying in English:
Lullaby, baby, lullaby, babyBaby's nursey, where has she goneOver those mountains she's gone to her village;And from her village, what will she bring?A tum-tum drum, and a bamboo flute,A "daruma" (which will never turn over) and a paper dog.
Lullaby, baby, lullaby, babyBaby's nursey, where has she goneOver those mountains she's gone to her village;And from her village, what will she bring?A tum-tum drum, and a bamboo flute,A "daruma" (which will never turn over) and a paper dog.
Lullaby, baby, lullaby, baby
Baby's nursey, where has she gone
Over those mountains she's gone to her village;
And from her village, what will she bring?
A tum-tum drum, and a bamboo flute,
A "daruma" (which will never turn over) and a paper dog.
Scope is allowed for unlimited extension, as the singer can go on mentioning any number of toys. TheDarumais what English children call a tumbler; a figure weighted at the bottom, so that turn it how you will, it always regains its equilibrium.
More ethereal delights than chocolate, hare's skins, bird-organs, or even paper dogs (though these last sound irresistibly seductive), form the subject of a beautiful little Greek song of consolation: "Lullaby, lullaby, thy mother is coming back from the laurels by the river, from the sweet banks she will bring thee flowers; all sorts of flowers, roses, and scented pinks." When she does come back, the Greek mother makes such promises as eclipse all the rest: "Sleep, my child, and I will give thee Alexandria for thy sugar, Cairo for thy rice, and Constantinople, there to reign three years!" Those who see deep meaning in childish things will look with interest at the young Greek woman, who sits vaguely dreaming of empire while she rocks her babe. The song is particularly popular in Cyprus; the English residents there must be familiar with the melody—an air constructed on the Oriental scale, and only the other day set on paper. The few bars of music are like a sigh of passionate longing.
From reward to punishment is but a step, and next in order to the songs that refer to the recompense of good, sleepy children, must be placed those hinting at the serious consequences which will be the result of unyielding wakefulness. It must be confessed thatretribution does not always assume a very awful form; in fact, in one German rhyme, it comes under so gracious a disguise, that a child might almost lie awake on purpose to look out for it:
Sleep, baby, sleep,I can see two little sheep;One is black and one is white,And, if you do not sleep to-night,First the black and then the whiteWill give your little toes a bite.
Sleep, baby, sleep,I can see two little sheep;One is black and one is white,And, if you do not sleep to-night,First the black and then the whiteWill give your little toes a bite.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
I can see two little sheep;
One is black and one is white,
And, if you do not sleep to-night,
First the black and then the white
Will give your little toes a bite.
The translation is by "Hans Breitmann."
In the threatening style of lullaby, the bogey plays a considerable part. A history of the bogeys of all nations would be an instructive book. The hero of one people is the bogey of another. Wellington and Napoleon (or rather "Boney") served to scare naughty babies long after the latter, at least, was laid to rest. French children still have songs about "le Prince Noir," and the nurses sang during the siege of Paris:
As-tu vu BismarckA la porte de Chatillon?Il lance les obusSur le Panthéon.
As-tu vu BismarckA la porte de Chatillon?Il lance les obusSur le Panthéon.
As-tu vu Bismarck
A la porte de Chatillon?
Il lance les obus
Sur le Panthéon.
The Moor is the nursery terror of many parts of Southern Europe; not, however, it would seem of Sicily—a possible tribute to the enlightened rule of the Kalifs. The Greeks do not enjoy a like immunity: Signor Avolio mentions, in his "Canti popolari di Noto," that besides saying "the wolf is coming," it is common for mothers to frighten their little ones with, "Zìttiti, ca viènunu i Riece; Nu sciri ca 'ncianuci sù i Rieci" ("Hush, for the Greeks are coming: don't go outside for the Greeks are there.") Noto was the centre of the district where the ancient Sikeli made their last stand against Greek supremacy: a coincidence that opens the way to bold speculation, though the originals of the bogey Greeks may have been only pirates of times far less remote.
In Germany the same person distributes rewards and punishments: St Nicholas in the Rhenish provinces, Knecht Ruprecht in Northern and Central Germany, Julklapp in Pomerania. On Christmas eve, some one cries out "Julklapp!" from behind a door, and throws the gift into the room with the child's name pinned upon it. Even the gentle St Lucy, the Santa Claus of Lombardy, withholds her cakes from erring babes, and little Tuscans stand a good deal in awe of their friend the Befana; delightful as are the treasures she puts in their shoes when satisfied with their behaviour, she is credited with an unpleasantly sharp eye for youthful transgressions. She has a relative in Japan of the name of Hotii. Once upon a time Hotii, who belongs to the sterner sex, lived on earth in the garb of a priest. His birthland was China, and he had the happy fame of being extremely kind to children. At present he walks about Japan with a big sack full of good things for young people, but the eyes with which the back of his head is furnished, enable him to see in a second if any child misconducts itself. Of more dubious antecedents is another patron of the children of Japan, Kishi Mojin, the mother of the child-demons. Once Kishi Mojin had the depraved habit of stealing any young child she could lay hands on and eating it. Inspite of this, she was sincerely attached to her own family, which numbered one thousand, and when the exalted Amida Niorai hid one of its members to punish her for her cruel practices, she grieved bitterly. Finally the child was given back on condition that Kishi Mojin would never more devour her neighbours' infants: she was advised to eat the fruit of the pomegranate whenever she had a craving for unnatural food. Apparently she took the advice and kept the compact, as she is honoured on the 28th day of every month, and little children are taught to solicit her protection. The kindness shown to children both in Japan and China is well known; in China one baby is said to be of more service in insuring a safe journey than an armed escort.
"El coco," a Spanish bogey, figures in a sleep-song from Malaga: "Sleep, little child, sleep, my soul; sleep, little star of the morning. My child sleeps with eyes open like the hares. Little baby girl, who has beaten thee that thine eyes look as if they had been crying? Poor little girl! who has made thy face red? The rose on the rose-tree is going to sleep, and to sleep goes my child, for already it is late. Sleep little daughter for thecococomes."
The folk-poet in Spain reaps the advantage of a recognised freedom of versification; with the great stress laid upon the vowels, a consonant more or less counts for nothing:
A dormir va la rosaDe los rosales;A dormir va miniñaPorque ya es tarde.
A dormir va la rosaDe los rosales;A dormir va miniñaPorque ya es tarde.
A dormir va la rosa
De los rosales;
A dormir va miniña
Porque ya es tarde.
All folk-poets, and notably the English, have recourseto an occasional assonant, but the Spaniard can trust altogether to such. Verse-making is thus made easy, provided ideas do not fail, and up to to-day, they have not failed the Spanish peasant. He has not, like the Italian, begun to leave off composing songs. My correspondent at Malaga writes that at that place improvisation seems innate in the people: they go before a house and sing the commonest thing they wish to express. Love and hate they also turn into songs, to be rehearsed under the window of the individual loved or hated. There is even an old woman now living in Malaga who rhymes in Latin with extraordinary facility. To the present section falls one other lullaby—coo-aby, perhaps I ought to say, since the Spanisharrullomeans the cooing of doves as well as the lulling of children. It is quoted by Count Gubernatis:
Isabellita, do not pineBecause the flowers fade away;If flowers hasten to decayWeep not, Isabellita mine.Little one, now close thine eyes,Hark, the footsteps of the Moor!And she asks from door to door,Who may be the child who cries?When I was as small as thouAnd within my cradle lying,Angels came about me flyingAnd they kissed me on my brow.Sleep, then, little baby, sleep:Sleep, nor cry again to-night,Lest the angels take to flightSo as not to see thee weep.
Isabellita, do not pineBecause the flowers fade away;If flowers hasten to decayWeep not, Isabellita mine.
Isabellita, do not pine
Because the flowers fade away;
If flowers hasten to decay
Weep not, Isabellita mine.
Little one, now close thine eyes,Hark, the footsteps of the Moor!And she asks from door to door,Who may be the child who cries?
Little one, now close thine eyes,
Hark, the footsteps of the Moor!
And she asks from door to door,
Who may be the child who cries?
When I was as small as thouAnd within my cradle lying,Angels came about me flyingAnd they kissed me on my brow.
When I was as small as thou
And within my cradle lying,
Angels came about me flying
And they kissed me on my brow.
Sleep, then, little baby, sleep:Sleep, nor cry again to-night,Lest the angels take to flightSo as not to see thee weep.
Sleep, then, little baby, sleep:
Sleep, nor cry again to-night,
Lest the angels take to flight
So as not to see thee weep.
"The Moor" is in this instance a benignant kind of bogey, not far removed from harmless "wee WillieWinkie" who runs upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown:
Tapping at the window,Crying at the lock,"Are the babes in their beds?For it's now ten o'clock."
Tapping at the window,Crying at the lock,"Are the babes in their beds?For it's now ten o'clock."
Tapping at the window,
Crying at the lock,
"Are the babes in their beds?
For it's now ten o'clock."
These myths have some analogy with a being known as "La Dormette" who frequents the neighbourhood of Poitou. She is a good old woman who throws sand and sleep on children's eyes, and is hailed with the words:
Passez la Dormette,Passez par chez nous!Endormir gars et fillettesLa nuit et le jou.
Passez la Dormette,Passez par chez nous!Endormir gars et fillettesLa nuit et le jou.
Passez la Dormette,
Passez par chez nous!
Endormir gars et fillettes
La nuit et le jou.
Now and then we hear of an angel who passes by at nightfall; it is not clear what may be his mission, but he is plainly too much occupied to linger with his fellow seraphs, who have nothing to do but to kiss the babe in its sleep. A little French song speaks of this journeying angel:
Il est tard, l'ange a passé,Le jour a déja baissé;Et l'on n'entend pour tout bruitQue le ruisseau qui s'enfuit.Endors toi,Mon fils! c'est moi.Il est tard et ton ami,L'oiseau blue, s'est endormi.
Il est tard, l'ange a passé,Le jour a déja baissé;Et l'on n'entend pour tout bruitQue le ruisseau qui s'enfuit.Endors toi,Mon fils! c'est moi.Il est tard et ton ami,L'oiseau blue, s'est endormi.
Il est tard, l'ange a passé,
Le jour a déja baissé;
Et l'on n'entend pour tout bruit
Que le ruisseau qui s'enfuit.
Endors toi,
Mon fils! c'est moi.
Il est tard et ton ami,
L'oiseau blue, s'est endormi.
In Calabria, when a butterfly flits around a baby's cradle, it is believed to be either an angel or a baby's soul.
The pendulum of good and evil is set swinging from the moment that the infant draws its first breath. Angelical visitation has its complement in demonial influence; it is even difficult to resist the conclusion that the ministers of light are frequently outnumbered by the powers of darkness. In most Christian lands the unbaptised child is given over entirely to the latter. Sicilian women are loth to kiss a child before its christening, because they consider it a pagan or a Turk. In East Tyrol and Styria, persons who take a child to be baptised say on their return—"A Jew we took away, a Christian we bring back." Some Tyrolese mothers will not give any food to their babies till the rite has been performed. The unbaptised Greek is thought to be simply a small demon, and is called by no other designation thanσρακοςif a boy, andσρακõυλαif a girl. Once when a christening was unavoidably delayed, the parents got so accustomed to calling their little girl by the snake name, that they continued doing so even after she had been presented with one less equivocal. Dead unchristened babes float about on the wind; in Tyrol they are marshalled along by Berchte, the wife of Pontius Pilate; in Scotland they may be heard moaning on calm nights. The state to which their baby souls are relegated, is probably a lingering recollection of that into which, in pagan days, all innocent spirits were conceived to pass: an explanation that has also the merit of being as little offensive as any that can be offered. There is naturally a general wish to make baptism follow as soon as possible after birth—an end that is sometimes pursued regardless of the bodily risks it may involve. A poorwoman gave birth to a child at the mines of Vallauria; it was a bitterly cold winter; the snow lay deep enough to efface the mountain tracks, and all moisture froze the instant it was exposed to the air. However, the grandmother of the new-born babe carried it off immediately to Tenda—many miles away—for the christening rite. As she had been heard to remark that it was a useless encumbrance, there were some who attributed her action to other motives than religious zeal; but the child survived the ordeal and prospered. In several parts of the Swiss mountains a baptism, like a funeral, is an event for the whole community. I was present at a christening in a small village lying near the summit of the Julier Pass. The bare, little church was crowded, and the service was performed with a reverent carefulness contrasting sharply with the mechanical and hurried performance of a baptism witnessed shortly before in a very different place, the glorious baptistry at Florence. It ended with a Lutheran hymn, sung sweetly without accompaniment, by five or six young girls. More than half of the congregation consisted of men, whose weather-tried faces were wet with tears, almost without exception. I could not find out that there was anything particularly sad in the circumstances of the case; the women certainly wore black, but then, the rule of attending the funerals even of mere acquaintances, causes the best dress in Switzerland to be always one suggestive of mourning. It seemed that the pathos of the dedication of a dawning life to the Supreme Good was sufficient to touch the hearts of these simple folk, starved from coarser emotion.
In Calabria it is thought unlucky to be either born or christened on a Friday. Saturday is likewise esteemed an inauspicious day, which points to its association with the witches' Sabbath, once the subject of numerous superstitious beliefs throughout the southern provinces of Italy. Not far from the battlefield near Benevento where Charles of Anjou defeated Manfred, grew a walnut tree, which had an almost European fame as the scene of Sabbatical orgies. People used to hang upon its branches the figure of a two-headed viper coiled into a ring, a symbol of incalculable antiquity. St Barbatus had the tree cut down, but the devil raised new shoots from the root and so it was renewed. Shreds of snake-worship may be still collected. The Calabrians hold that the cast-off skin of a snake is an excellent thing to put under the pillow of a sick baby. Even after their christening, children are unfortunately most susceptible to enchantment. When a beautiful and healthy child sickens and dies, the Irish peasant infers that the genuine baby has been stolen by fairies, and this miserable sprite left in its place. Two ancient antidotes have great power to counteract the effect of spells. One is the purifying Fire. In Scotland, as in Italy, bewitched children, within the memory of living men, have been set to rights by contact with its salutary heat. My relative, Count Belli of Viterbo, was "looked at" when an infant by aJettatrice, and was in consequence put by his nurse into a mild oven for half-an-hour. One would think that the remedy was nearly as perilous as the practice of the lake-dwellers of cutting a little hole in their children's heads to let out the evil spirits, but in the case mentioned it seems to have answered well.
The other important curative agent is the purifying spittle. In Scotland and in Greece, any one who should exclaim, "What a beautiful child!" is expected to slightly spit upon the object of the remark, or some misfortune will follow. Ladies in a high position at Athens have been observed to do this quite lately. The Scotch and Greek uneasiness about the "well-faured" is by no means confined to those peoples; the same anxiety reappears in Madagascar; and the Arab does not like you to praise the beauty of his horse without adding the qualifying "an it please God." Persius gives an account of the precautions adopted by the friends of the infant Roman: "Look here—a grandmother or superstitious aunt has taken baby from hiscradleand is charming his forehead and his slavering lips against mischief by the joint action of her middle finger and her purifying spittle; for she knows right well how to check the evil eye. Then she dandles him in her arms, and packs off the little pinched hope of the family, so far as wishing can do it, to the domains of Licinus, or to the palace of Crœsus. 'May he be a catch for my lord and lady's daughter! May the pretty ladies scramble for him! May the ground he walks on turn to a rose-bed.'" (Prof. Conington's translation.)
One of the rare lullabies that contain allusion to enchantment is the following Roumanian "Nani-nani":