'Y-a-t-il donc, dans les contes populaires, quelque chose
d'interessant pour un esprit serieux?'--Cosquin.
The old ballads of England and Scotland are fine wine in cobwebbed
bottles; and many have made the error of paying too much attention to
the cobwebs and not enough attention to the wine. This error is as
blameworthy as its converse: we must take the inside and the outside
together.
+I. What is a Ballad?+
The earliest sense of the word 'ballad,' or rather of its French and
Provencal predecessors, _balada_, _balade_ (derived from the late Latin
_ballare_, to dance), was 'a song intended as the accompaniment to a
dance,' a sense long obsolete.[1] Next came the meaning, a simple song
of sentiment or romance, of two verses or more, each of which is sung to
the same air, the accompaniment being subordinate to the melody. This
sense we still use in our 'ballad-concerts.' Another meaning was that of
simply a popular song or ditty of the day, lyrical or narrative, of the
kind often printed as a broadsheet. Lyrical _or_ narrative, because the
Elizabethans appear not to distinguish the two. Read, for instance, the
well-known scene in _The Winter's Tale_ (Act IV. Sc. 4); here we have
both the lyrical ballad, as sung by Dorcas and Mopsa, in which Autolycus
bears his part 'because it is his occupation'; and also the 'ballad in
print,' which Mopsa says she loves--'for then we are sure it is true.'
Immediately after, however, we discover that the 'ballad in print' is
the broadside, the narrative ballad, sung of a usurer's wife brought to
bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, or of a fish that appeared upon
the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April: in short, as _Martin
Mar-sixtus_ says (1592), 'scarce a cat can look out of a gutter but out
starts a halfpenny chronicler, and presently a proper new ballet of a
strange sight is indited.' Chief amongst these 'halfpenny chroniclers'
were William Elderton, of whom Camden records that he 'did arm himself
with ale (as old father Ennius did with wine) when he ballated,' and
thereby obtained a red nose almost as celebrated as his verses; Thomas
Deloney, 'the ballating silkweaver of Norwich'; and Richard Johnson,
maker of Garlands. Thus to Milton, to Addison, and even to Johnson,
'ballad' essentially implies singing; but from about the middle of the
eighteenth century the modern interpretation of the word began to come
into general use.
[Footnote 1: For the subject of the origin of the ballad and its
refrain in the _ballatio_ of the dancing-ring, see _The Beginnings
of Poetry_, by Professor Francis B. Gummere, especially chap. v. The
beginning of the whole subject is to be found in the universal and
innate practices of accompanying manual or bodily labour by a
rhythmic chant or song, and of festal song and dance.]
In 1783, in one of his letters, the poet Cowper says: 'The ballad is a
species of poetry, I believe, peculiar to this country.... Simplicity
and ease are its proper characteristics.' Here we have one of the
earliest attempts to define the modern meaning of a 'ballad.' Centuries
of use and misuse of the word have left us no unequivocal name for the
ballad, and we are forced to qualify it with epithets. 'Traditional'
might be deemed sufficient; but 'popular' or 'communal' is more
definite. Here we adopt the word used by Professor Child--'popular.'
What, then, do we intend to signify by the expression 'popular ballads'?
Far the most important point is to maintain an antithesis between the
poetry of the people and the consciously artistic poetry of the schools.
Wilhelm Grimm, the less didactic of the two famous brothers, said that
the ballad says nothing unnecessary or unreal, and despises external
adornment. Ferdinand Wolf, the great critic of the Homeric question,
said the ballad must be naive, objective, not sentimental, lively and
erratic in its narrative, without ornamentation, yet with much
picturesque vigour.
It is even more necessary to define sharply the line between poetry _of_
the people and poetry _for_ the people.[2] The latter may still be
written; the making of the former is a lost art. Poetry of the people is
either lyric or narrative. This difference is roughly that between song
and ballad. 'With us,' says Ritson, 'songs of sentiment, expression, or
even description, are properly termed songs, in contradistinction to
mere narrative compositions which we now denominate Ballads.' This
definition, of course, is essentially modern; we must still insist on
the fact that genuine ballads were sung: 'I sing Musgrove,'[3] says Sir
Thwack in Davenant's _The Wits_, 'and for the Chevy Chase no lark comes
near me.' Lastly, we must emphasise that the accompaniment is
predominated by the air to which the words are sung. I have heard the
modern comic song described as 'the kind in which you hear the words,'
thus differentiating it from the drawing-room song, in which the words
are (happily) as a rule less audible than the melody. In the ballad, as
sung, the words are most important; but it is of vital importance to
remember that the ballads were chanted.
[Footnote 2: See the first essay, 'What is "Popular Poetry"?' in
_Ideas of Good and Evil_, by W. B. Yeats (1903), where this
distinction is not recognised.]
[Footnote 3: _Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard_ (see p. 19, etc.).]
+II. Poetry of the People.+
Now what is this 'poetry of the people'? One theory is as follows. Every
nation or people in the natural course of its development reaches a
stage at which it consists of a homogeneous, compact community, with its
sentiments undivided by class-distinctions, so that the whole active
body forms what is practically an individual. Begging the question, that
poetry can be produced by such a body, this poetry is naturally of a
concrete and narrative character, and is previous to the poetry of art.
'Therefore,' says Professor Child, 'while each ballad will be
idiosyncratic, it will not be an expression of the personality of
individuals, but of a collective sympathy; and the fundamental
characteristic of popular ballads is therefore the absence of
subjectivity and self-consciousness. Though they do not "write
themselves," as Wilhelm Grimm has said--though a man and not a people
has composed them, still the author counts for nothing, and it is not by
mere accident, but with the best reason, that they have come down to us
anonymous.'
By stating this, the dictum of one of the latest and most erudite of
ballad-scholars, so early in our argument, we anticipate a century or
more of criticism and counter-criticism, during which the giants of
literature ranged themselves in two parties, and instituted a
battle-royal which even now is not quite finished. It will be most
convenient if we denominate the one party as that which holds to the
communal or 'nebular' theory of authorship, and the other as the
anti-communal or 'artistic' theory. The tenet of the former party has
already been set forth, namely, that the poetry of the people is a
natural and spontaneous production of a community at that stage of its
existence when it is for all practical purposes an individual. The
theory of the 'artistic' school is that the ballads and folk-songs are
the productions of skalds, minstrels, bards, troubadours, or other
vagrant professional singers and reciters of various periods; it is
allowed, however, that, being subject entirely to oral transmission,
these ballads and songs are open to endless variation.
On the Continent, Herder was pioneer, both of the claims of popular
poetry and of the nebular theory of authorship. Traditions of chivalry,
he says, became poetry in the mouths of the people; but his definition
of popular poetry has rather extended bounds. Herder's enthusiasm fired
Goethe (who, however, did not wholly accede to the 'nebular' theory) to
study the subject, and the effect was soon noticeable in his own poetry.
Next came the two great brothers, whose names are ever to be held in
honour wherever folklore is studied or folktales read, Jacob and Wilhelm
Grimm. Jacob, the more ardent and polemical, insisted on the communal
authorship of the poetry of the people; ballad or song 'sings itself.'
Both the Grimms, and especially Jacob, were severely handled by the
critic Schlegel, who insisted on the artist. To Schlegel we owe the
famous image in which popular poetry is a tower, and the poet an
architect. Hundreds may fetch and carry, but all are useless without the
direction of the architect. This is specious argument; but we might
reply to Schlegel that an architect is only wanted when the result is
required to be an artistic whole. The tower of Babel was built by
hundreds of men under no superintendence. Schlegel's intention, however,
is no less clear than that of Jacob Grimm, and the two are diametrically
opposed.
In England, literary prejudice against the unpolished barbarities and
uncouthnesses of the ballad was at no time so pronounced as it was on
the Continent, and especially in Germany, during the latter half of the
eighteenth century. Indeed, at intervals, the most learned and fantastic
critics in England would call attention to the poetry of the people. Sir
Philip Sidney's apologetic words are well known:-- 'Certainly I must
confesse my own barbarousnes, I never heard the olde song of _Percy_ and
_Duglas_, that I found not my heart mooved more then with a Trumpet.'
Addison was bolder. 'It is impossible that anything should be
universally tasted and approved by a Multitude, tho' they are only the
Rabble of a Nation, which hath not in it some peculiar Aptness to please
and gratify the Mind of Man.' With these and other encouragements the
popular poetry of England was not lost to sight; and in 1765 the work of
the good Bishop of Dromore gave the ballads a place in literature.
Percy's opening remarks, attributing the ballads to the minstrels, are
as well known as the scoffs of the hard-hitting Joseph Ritson, who
contemptuously dismissed Percy's theories,[4] and refused to believe any
ballad to be of earlier origin than the reign of Elizabeth. Sir Walter
Scott was quite ready to accept the ballads as the productions of the
minstrels, either as 'the occasional effusions of some self-taught
bard,' or as abridged from the tales of tradition after the days when,
as Alfred de Musset says, 'our old romances spread their wings of gold
towards the enchanted world.'
[Footnote 4: 'The truth really lay between the two, for neither
appreciated the wide variety covered by a common name' (_The
Mediaeval Stage_, E. K. Chambers, 1903). See especially chapters iii.
and iv. of this work for an admirably complete and illuminating
account of minstrelsy.]
This brings us nearer to our own day. The argument is not closed,
although we can discern offers of concession from either side. Svend
Grundtvig, editor of the enormous collection of Danish ballads,
distinguished the ballad from all forms of artistic literature, and
would have the artist left out of sight; Nyrop and the Scandinavian
scholars, on the other hand, entirely gave up the notion of communal
authorship. Howbeit, the trend of modern criticism,[5] on the whole, is
towards a common belief regarding most ballads, which may be stated
again, in Professor Child's words: 'Though a man and not a people has
composed them, still the author counts for nothing, and it is not by
mere accident, but with the best reason, that they have come down to us
anonymous.'
[Footnote 5: For the most recent discussions, see Bibliography,
p. lii.]
+III. The Growth of Ballads.+
Let us then picture, however vaguely and uncertainly, the growth of a
ballad. It is well known that the folklores of the various races of the
world exhibit common features, and that the beliefs, superstitions,
tales, even conventionalities of expression, of one race, are found to
present constant and remarkable similarities to those of another.
Whether these similarities are to be held mere coincidences, or whether
they are to be explained by the theory of a common ancestry in the
cradle of the world, is a side-issue into which I do not intend to
enter. Suffice it that the fact is true, especially of the peoples who
speak the Indo-European tongues. The lore which has for its foundation
permanent and universal acceptance in the hearts of mankind is preserved
by tradition, and remains independent of the criteria applied
instinctively and unconsciously to artistic compositions. The community
is one at heart, one in mind, one in method of expression. Tales are
recited, verses chanted, and the singer of a clan makes his version of a
popular story. Simultaneously other singers, it may be of other clans of
the same race, or of another race altogether, elaborate their versions
of the common theme. Meanwhile the first singer has again recited or
chanted his ballad, and, having forgotten the exact wording, has altered
it, and perhaps introduced improvements. The same happens in the other
cases. The various audiences carry away as much as they can remember,
and recite their versions, again with individual omissions, alterations,
and additions. Thus, by ever-widening circles, the tale is distributed
in countless forms over an unlimited area. The elements of the story
remain, wholly or in part, while the literary clothing is altered
according to the 'taste and fancy' of the reciter. The lore is now
traditional, whether it be in prose, as Maerchen, or in verse, as ballad.
And so it remains in oral circulation--and therefore still liable to
variation--until it is written down or printed. It is left 'masterless,'
unsigned; for of the original author's composition, may be, only a word
or two remains. It has passed through many mouths, and has been made
over countless times. But once written down it ceases _virum volitare
per ora_; the invention of printing has spoiled the powers of man's
memory.
We can now take up the tale at the fifteenth century; let us henceforth
confine our attention to England. It is agreed on all sides that the
fifteenth century was the period when, in England at least, the ballads
first became a prominent feature. Of historical ballads, _The Hunting of
the Cheviot_ was probably composed as early as 1400 or thereabouts. The
romances contemporaneously underwent a change, and took on a form nearer
to that of the ballad. Whatever may be the date of the origin of the
subject-matter, the literary clothing--language, mode of expression,
colour--of no ballad, as we now have it, is much, earlier than 1400. The
only possible exceptions to this statement are one or two of the Robin
Hood ballads--attributed to the thirteenth century by Professor Child,
but _adhuc sub judice_--and a ballad of sacred legend--_Judas_--which
exists in a thirteenth-century manuscript in the library of Trinity
College, Cambridge.
During the fifteenth century, the ballads, still purely narrative, were
cast abroad through the length and breadth of the land, undergoing
continual changes, modifications, enlargements, for better or for worse.
They told of romance and chivalry, of historical, quasi-historical, and
mythico-historical deeds, of the traditions of the Church and sacred
legend, and of the lore that gathers round the most popular of heroes,
Robin Hood. The earliest printed English ballad is the _Gest of Robyn
Hode_, which now remains in a fragment of about the end of the fifteenth
century.
The sixteenth century continued the process of the popularisation of
ballads. Minstrels, who, as a class, had been slowly perishing ever
since the invention of printing, were now vagrants, and the profession
was decadent. Towards the end of the century we hear of Richard Sheale,
whom we may describe as the first of the so-called 'Last of the
Minstrels.' He describes himself as a minstrel of Tamworth, his business
being to chant ballads and tell tales. We know that the ballad of _The
Hunting of the Cheviot_ was part of his repertory, for he wrote down his
version, which is still preserved in the Ashmolean MSS. At the end of
the sixteenth century the minstrels had fallen, in England at least,
into entire degradation. In 1597, Percy notes, a statute of Elizabeth
was passed including 'minstrels, wandering abroad,' amongst the other
'rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars'; and fifty years later Cromwell
made a very similar ordinance.[6]
[Footnote 6: But these were only re-enactments of existing laws. See
Chambers, _Mediaeval Stage,_ i. p. 54.]
In Elizabeth's reign we first meet with the ballad-mongers and
professional authors of ballads. Simultaneously, or nearly so, comes the
degradation of the word 'ballad,' until it signifies either the genuine
popular ballad, or a satirical song, or a broadside, or almost any ditty
of the day. Of the ballad-mongers, we have mentioned Elderton, Deloney,
and Johnson. We might add a hundred others, from Anthony Munday to
Martin Parker, and even Tom Durfey, each of whom contributed largely to
the vast mushroom-literature that sprang up and flourished vigorously
for the next century. Chappell mentions that seven hundred and
ninety-six ballads remained at the end of 1560 in the cupboards of the
council-chamber of the Stationers' Company for transference to the new
wardens of the succeeding year. These, of course, would consist chiefly
of broadsides: the narrations of strange events, monstrosities, or 'true
tales' of the day.
It is true that many of the genuine popular ballads were rewritten to
suit contemporary taste. But the style of the seventeenth century
ballads cannot be compared to the noble straightforwardness and
simplicity of the ancient ballad. Let us place side by side the first
stanza of the _Hunting of the Cheviot_ and the first few verses of _Fair
Rosamond_, a very fair specimen of Deloney's work.