Le bon Dieu est mon pere, La Vierge ma mere, Les saints mes freres, Les saints mes s[oe]urs; Le bon Dieu m'a dit: Leve-toi, couche-toi, Ne crains rien; le feu, l'orage, et la tempete Ne peuvent rien contre toi.

Saint Jean, Saint Marc, Saint Luc, et St Matthieu, Qui mettez les ames en repos, Mettez-y la mienne si Dieu veut.

In Provence many a worthy country woman repeats each night this _preiro doou soir_:--

Au liech de Diou Me couche iou, Sept anges n'en trouve iou, Tres es peds, Quatre au capet (caput--head); La Buoeno Mero es au mitan Uno roso blanco a la man.

The white rose borne by the Good Mother is a pretty and characteristic interpolation peculiar to flower-loving Provence. In the conclusion of the prayer the _Boueno Mero_ tells whosoever recites it to have no fear of dog or wolf, or wandering storm or running water, or shining fire, or any evil folk. M. Damase Arbaud got together a number of other devotional fragments that may be regarded as offshoots from the parent stem. St Joseph, "Nourricier de Diou," is asked to preserve the supplicant from sudden death, "et de l'infer et de ses flammos."

St Ann, "mero-grand de Jesus Christ," is prayed to teach the way to Paradise. To St Denis a very practical pet.i.tion is addressed:

Grand Sant Danis de Franco, Gardetz me moun bouen sens, ma boueno remembranco.

Another verse points distinctly to a desire for protection against witchcraft. The Provencals, by the bye, are of opinion that the _Angelus_ was inst.i.tuted to scare away any ill-conditioned spirits that might be tempted out by the approach of night.

In Germany the guardian saints are dispensed with, but the angels are retained in force. I am indebted to Mr C. G. Leland for a translation of the most popular German even-song:

Fourteen angels in a band Every night around me stand.

Two to my left hand, Two to my right, Who watch me ever By day and night.

Two at my head, Two at my feet, To guard my slumber Soft and sweet; Two to wake me At break of day, When night and darkness Pa.s.s away; Two to cover me Warm and nice, And two to lead me To Paradise.

Pa.s.sing on to Italy we find an embarra.s.sing abundance of folk-prayers framed after the self-same model. The repose of the Venetian is under the charge of the Perfect Angel, the Angel of G.o.d, St Bartholomew, the Blessed Mother, St Elizabeth, the Four Evangelists, and St John the Baptist. Venetian children are taught to say: "I go to bed, I know not if I shall arise. Thou, Lord, who knowest, keep good watch over me.

Before my soul separates from my body, give me help and good comfort.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, so be it.

Bless my heart and my soul!" The Venetians also have a "Paternoster pichenin," and a "Paternoster grande," both of which are, in their existing form, little else than nonsense. The native of the Marches goes to his rest accompanied by our Lord, the Madonna, the Four Evangelists, _l'Angelo perfetto_, four greater angels, and three others--one at the foot, one at the head, one in the middle. The Tuscan, like the German, has only angels around him: of these he has seven--one at the head, one at the foot, two at the sides, one to cover him, one to watch him, and one to bear him to Paradise. The Sicilian says: "I lay me down in this bed, with Jesus on my breast. I sleep and he watches. In this bed where I am laid, five saints I find: two at the head, two at the feet, in the middle is St Michael."

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

Su letto meo est de battor cantones, Et battor anghelos si bie ponen; Duos in pes, et duos in cabitta, Nostra Segnora a costazu m'ista.

E a me narat: Dormi e reposa, No hapas paura de mala cosa, No hapas paura de mala fine.

S' Anghelu Serafine, S' Anghelu Biancu, S' Ispiridu Santu, Sa Vigine Maria, Tote siant in c.u.mpagnia mea.

Anghelu de Deu, Custodio meo, Custa nott' illuminame!

Guarda e difende a me Ca eo mi incommando a tie.

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

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

Quatro pirondelitas Tiene mi cama; Quatro angelitos Me la acompana.

La madre de dios Esta enmedio, Dicendome: Duerme y reposa, Que no te sucedera Ninguna mala cosa.

Amen.

In harmony with the leading idea of the White Paternoster, the rec.u.mbent figures of the Archbishops in Canterbury Cathedral have angels kneeling at each corner of their altar tombs. It is worth remarking, too, how certain English lettered compositions have become truly popular through the fact of their introducing the same idea.

A former Dean of Canterbury once asked an old woman, who lived alone without chick or child, whether she said her prayers? "Oh! yes," was the reply, "I say every night of my life,

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

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

poems are not very well known either in France or out of it, but they should be dear to students of folk-lore. The following is a version of "La Poussiere Sainte:"

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

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

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

"My angel knows, a Christian true am I; No Pagan, nor in league with sorcery.

Hence I dispense to the four winds of G.o.d, To quell their rage, dust from the holy sod.

"Sweep on my broom; by virtues such as these Oft through the air I scattered swarms of bees.

And you, old Coulm, to-morrow shall be prest, You, and my children three, against my breast."

In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier along Pressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng.

And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash, And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash; Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed, Through superst.i.tion, speechless, while afraid.

Still as the port a sail did safely reach, All shouting hurried forward to the beach: "Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?"

Others, "Hast seen my son?" "My brother, you?"

"Brave man, the truth, whate'er has happened, say, Am I a widow?" Night in such dismay Dragged 'neath a sky without a moon or star.

Thank G.o.d! Meanwhile all boats in safety are, And every hearth is blazing--all save one, The Columban's. But that was void and lone.

But you, Coulm's wife, still battle with the storm, Fixed on the rocks, your task you still perform,-- You cast, towards east, towards west, and towards the north, And towards the south, your incantations forth.

"Go, holy dust, 'gainst all the winds that fly.

No sorceress, but a Christian true am I.

By the lamp's light, when I the fire had lit, In G.o.d's own house, my hands collected it.

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

"Go, holy dust! To stem the winds depart!

Born beneath Christian feet, thou glorious art: When from the porch, I to the altar sped, I seemed upon some heavenly path to tread.

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

She ceased her charm; and from the chapel then She saw approach four bare-foot fishermen.

The aged dame in tears fell on her knees And cried, "I knew they would escape the seas!"

Then cleansing sand and sea-weed o'er them spread, With happy lips she kissed each cherished head.

THE DIFFUSION OF BALLADS.

I.--LORD RONALD IN ITALY.

Several causes have combined to give the professional minstrel a more tenacious hold on life in Italy than in France or Germany or England.

One of them is, that Italian culture has always been less dependent on education--or what the English poor call "book-learning"--than the culture of those countries.

To this day you may count upon finding a blind ballad-singer in every Italian city. The connection of blindness with popular songs is a noteworthy thing. It is not, perhaps, a great exaggeration to say that, had there been no blind folks in the world, there would have been few ballads. Who knows, indeed, but that Homer would not have earned his bread by bread-making instead of by enchanting the children and wise men of all after-ages, had he not been "one who followed a guide"? Every one remembers how it was the singing of a "blinde crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style," that moved the heroic heart of Sidney more than the blare of trumpets. Every one may not know that in the East of Europe and in Armenia, "blinde crowders"

still wander from village to village, carrying, wheresoever they go, the songs of a former day and the news of the latest hour; acting, after a fashion, as professors of history and "special correspondents," and keeping alive the sentiment of nationality under circ.u.mstances in which, except for their agency, it must almost without a doubt have expired.

When the Austrians occupied Trebinje in the Herzegovina, they forbade the playing of the "guzla," the little stringed instrument which accompanies the ballads; but the ballads will not be forgotten.