L'Isola del Fuoco--the Isle of Fire, as Dante named it--is singularly
rich in poetic associations. Acis, the sweet wood-born stream,
Galatea, the calm of the summer sea, and how many more flower-children
of a world which had not learned to "look before and after," of a
people who deified nature and naturalised deity, and felt at one with
both, send us thence across the ages the fragrance of their immortal
youth. Our mind's magic lantern shows us Sappho and Alcaeus welcomed
in Sicily as guests, Pindar writing his Sicilian Odes, the mighty
AEschylus, burdened always perhaps with a sorrow--untainted by fretful
anger--because of that slight, sprung from the enthusiasm for the
younger poet, the heat of politics, we know not what, which drove him
forth from Athens: yet withal solaced by the homage paid to his grey
hairs, and not ill-content to die
On the bank of Gela productive of corn.
To Sicily we trace the germs of Greek comedy, and the addition of the
epode to the strophe and anti-strophe. We remember the story of how,
when the greatness of Athens had gone to wreck off Syracuse, a few
of the starving slaves in the _latomiae_ were told they were free men,
thanks to their ability to recite passages from Euripides; we remember
also that new story, narrated in English verse, of the adventure which
befell the Rhodian maid Balaustion, on these Sicilian shores, and of
the good stead stood her by the knowledge of _Alcestis_. We think
of Sicily as the birth-place of the Idyllists, the soil which bore
through them an aftermath of Grecian song thick with blossom as the
last autumn yield of Alpine meads. Then by a strange transformation
scene we get a glimpse of Arabian Kasides hymning the beauties of the
Conca d'Oro, and as these disappear, arise the forms of the poets of
whom Petrarch says--
... i Sicilian!
Che fur gia primi
--those wonderful poet discoverers, more wonderful as discoverers than
as poets, who found out that a new music was to be made in a tongue,
not Latin, nor yet Provencal--a tongue which had grown into life under
the double foster-fathership of Arabian culture and Norman rule, the
_lingua cortigiana_ of the palaces of Palermo, the "common speech" of
Dante. When we recollect how the earliest written essays in Italian
were composed in what once was styled Sicilian, it seems a trifle
unfair for the practical adaptator--in this case as often happens in
the case of individuals--to have so completely borne away the glory
from the original inventor as to cause the latter to be all but
forgotten. We now hear only of the "sweet Tuscan tongue," and even
the pure pronunciation of educated Sicilians is not admitted without
a comment of surprise. But whilst the people of Tuscany quickly
assimilated the _lingua cortigiana_ and made it their own, the people
of Sicily stuck fast to their old wild-flower language, and left
ungathered the gigantic lily nurtured in Palermitan hot-houses and
carried by the great Florentine into heaven and hell. They continued
speaking, not the Sicilian we call Italian, but the Sicilian we call
patois--the Sicilian of the folk-songs. The study of Italic dialects
is one by no means ill-calculated to repay the trouble bestowed
upon it, and that from a point of view not connected with their
philological aspect. How far, or it may be I should say, how soon they
will die out, in presence of the political unity of the country, and
of the general modern tendency towards the adoption of standard forms
of language, it is not quite easy to decide. Were we not aware of the
astonishing rapidity with which dialects, like some other things, may
give way when once the least breach is opened, we might suppose
that those of Italy were good for many hundred years. Even the
upper classes have not yet abandoned them: it is said that there
are deputies at Monte Citorio who find the flow of their ideas sadly
baulked by the parliamentary etiquette which expects them to be
delivered in Italian. And the country-people are still so strongly
attached to their respective idioms as to incline them to believe
that they are the "real right thing," to the disadvantage of all
competitors. Not long ago, a Lombard peasant-woman employed as nurse
to a neuralgic Sicilian gentleman who spoke as correctly as any
Tuscan, assured a third person with whom she chatted in her own
dialect--it was at a bath establishment--that her patient did not know
a single word of Italian! But it is reported that in some parts of
Italy the peasants are beginning to forget their songs; and when
a generation or two has lived through the aera of facile
inter-communication that makes Reggio but two or three days' journey
from Turin, when every full-grown man has served his term of military
service in districts far removed from his home, the vitality of the
various dialects will be put to a severe test. Come when it may, the
change will have in it much that is desirable for Italy: of this there
can be no question; nor can it be disputed that as a whole standard
Italian offers a more complete and plastic medium of expression than
Venetian, or Neapolitan, or Sicilian. Nevertheless, in the mouth of
the people the local dialects have a charm which standard Italian has
not--a charm that consists in clothing their thought after a
fashion which, like the national peasant costumes, has an essential
suitability to the purpose it is used for, and while wanting neither
grace nor richness, suggests no comparisons that can reflect upon it
unfavourably. The naive ditty of a poet of Termini or Partinico is
too much a thing _sui generis_ for it to suffer by contrast with the
faultless finish of a sonnet in _Vita di Madonna Laura_.
Sicily is notoriously richer in songs than any province of the
mainland; Vigo collected 5000, and the number of those since written
down seems almost incredible. It has even been conjectured that Sicily
was the original fountain-head of Italian popular poetry, and that it
is still the source of the greater part of the songs which circulate
through Italy.[A] Songs that rhyme imperfectly in the Tuscan version
have been found correct when put into Sicilian, a fact which points
to the island as their first home. Dr Pitre, however, deprecates
such speculations as premature, and when so distinguished and so
conscientious an investigator bids us suspend our judgment, we can do
no better than to obey. What can be stated with confidence is, that
popular songs are inveterate travellers, and fly from place to place,
no one knows how, at much the same electrical rate as news spreads
amongst the people--a phenomenon of which the more we convince
ourselves that the only explanation is the commonplace one that lies
on the surface, the more amazing and even mysterious does it appear.
[Footnote A: "Noi crediamo ... che il Canto popolare italiano
sia nativo di Sicilia. Ne con questo intendiamo asserire che
le plebi delle altre provincie sieno prive di poetica facolta,
e che non vi sieno poesie popolari sorte in altre regioni
italiane, ed ivi cresciute e di la diramate attorno. Ma
crediamo che, nella maggior parte des casi, il Canto abbia per
patria di origine l'Isola, e per patria di adozione la
Toscana: che, nato con veste di dialetto in Sicilia, in
Toscana abbia assunto forma illustre e comune, e con siffatta
veste novella sia migrato nelle altre provincie."--_La Poesia
Popolare Italiana: Studj di Alessandro d'Ancona_, p. 285.]
As regards the date of the origin of folk-songs in Sicily, the boldest
guess possibly comes nearest the truth, and this takes us back to a
time before Theocritus. Cautious students rest satisfied with adducing
undoubted evidence of their existence as early as the twelfth century,
in the reign of William II., whose court was famed for "good speakers
in rhyme of _every condition_." Moreover, it is certain that Sicilian
songs had begun to travel orally and in writing to the Continent
considerably before the invention of printing; and it is not unlikely
that many _canzuni_ now current in the island could lay claim to an
antiquity of at least six or seven hundred years. Folk-songs change
much less than might at first sight be expected in the course of their
transmission from father to son, from century to century; and some
among the songs still popular in Sicily have been discovered written
down in old manuscripts in a form almost identical to that in which
they are sung to-day. Although the methodical collection of folk-songs
is a thing but recently undertaken, the fact of there being such songs
in Sicily was long ago perfectly well known. An English traveller
writing in the last century remarks, that "the whole nation are poets,
even the peasants, and a man stands a poor chance for a mistress that
is not capable of celebrating her." He goes on to say, that happily in
the matter of serenades the obligations of a chivalrous lover are not
so onerous as they were in the days of the Spaniards, when a fair
dame would frown upon the most devoted swain who had not a cold in his
head--the presumed proof of his having dutifully spent the night "with
the heavens for his house, the stars for his shelter, the damp earth
for his mattress, and for pillow a harsh thistle"--to borrow the exact
words of a folk-poet.
One class of folk-songs may be fairly trusted to speak for themselves
as to the date of their composition, namely, that which deals with
historical facts and personages. Until lately the songs of Italy were
believed, with the exception of Piedmont, to be of an exclusively
lyrical character; but fresh researches, and, above all, the
unremitting and enthusiastic efforts of Signor Salvatore
Salomone-Marino, have brought to light a goodly quantity of Sicilian
songs in which the Greek, Arabian, Norman, and Angevin denominations
all come in for their share of commemoration. And that the authors
of these songs spoke of the present, not of the past, is a natural
inference, when actual observation certifies that such is the
invariable custom of living folk-poets. For the people events soon
pass into a misty perspective, and the folk-poet is a sort of people's
journalist; he makes his song as the contributor to a newspaper writes
his leading article, about the matter uppermost for the moment in
men's minds, whether it be important or trivial. In 1860 he sang
of "the bringers of the tricolor," the "milli famusi guirreri," and
"Aribaldi lu libiraturi." In 1868 he joked over the grand innovation
by which "the poor folk of the piazza were sent to Paradise in a fine
coach," _i.e._, the substitution, by order of the municipality of
Palermo, of first, second, and third class funeral cars in lieu of the
old system of bearers. In 1870 he was very curious about the eclipse
which had been predicted. "We shall see if God confirms this news that
the learned tell us, of the war there is going to be between the moon
and the sun," says he, discreetly careful not to tie himself down to
too much faith or too much distrust. Then, when the eclipse has
duly taken place, his admiration knows no bounds. "What heads--what
beautiful minds God gives these learned men!" he cries; "what grace
is granted to man that he can read even the thoughts of God!" The
Franco-German war inspired a great many poets, who displayed, at all
events in the first stages of the struggle, a strong predilection for
the German side. All these songs long survive the period of the events
they allude to, and help materially to keep their memory alive; but
for a new song to be composed on an incident ten years old, would
simply argue that its author was not a folk-poet at all, in the strict
sense of the word. The great majority of the historical songs are
short, detached pieces, bearing no relation to each other; but now and
then we come upon a group of stanzas which suggest the idea of their
having once formed part of a consecutive whole; and in one instance,
that of the historical legend of the Baronessa di Carini, the
assembled fragments approach the proportions of a popular epic. But
it is doubtful whether this poem--for so we may call it--is thoroughly
popular in origin, though the people have completely adopted it, and
account it "the most beautiful and most dolorous of all the histories
and songs," thinking all the more of it in consequence of the profound
secrecy with which it has been preserved out of fear of provoking
the wrath of a powerful Sicilian family, very roughly handled by its
author.
Of religious songs there are a vast number in Sicily, and the stock is
perpetually fed by the pious rhyme tournaments held in celebration of
notable saints' days at the village fairs. On such occasions the image
or relics of the saints are exhibited in the public square, and
the competitors, the assembled poetic talent of the neighbourhood,
proceed, one after the other, to improvise verses in his honour. If
they succeed in gaining the suffrage of their audience, which may
amount to five or six thousand persons, they go home liberally
rewarded. Along with these saintly eulogiums may be mentioned a style
of composition more ancient than edifying--the Sicilian parodies.
A pious or complimentary song is travestied into a piece of coarse
abuse, or a sample of that unblushing, astounding irreverence which
sometimes startles the most hardened sceptic, travelling in countries
where the empire of Catholicism has been least shaken--in Tyrol,
for instance, and in Spain. We cannot be sure whether the Sicilian
parodist deliberately intends to be profane, or is only indifferent as
to what weapons he uses in his eagerness to cast ridicule upon a rival
versifier--the last hypothesis seems to me to be the most plausible;
but it takes nothing from the significance of his profanity as it
stands. It is pleasant to turn from these several sections of Sicilian
verse, which, though valuable in helping us to know the people from
whom they spring, for the most part have but small merits when judged
as poetry, to the stream of genuine song which flows side by side with
them: a stream, fresh, clear, pure: a poesy always true in its artless
art, generally bright and ingenious in its imagery, sometimes tersely
felicitous in its expression. In his love lyrics, and but rarely save
in them, the Sicilian _popolano_ rises from the rhymester to the poet.
The most characteristic forms of the love-songs of Sicily are those of
the _ciuri_, called in Tuscany _stornelli_, and the _canzuni_, called
in Tuscany _rispetti_. The _ciuri_ (flowers) are couplets or triplets
beginning with the name of a flower, with which the other line
or lines should rhyme. They abound throughout the island, and
notwithstanding the poor estimation in which the peasants hold them,
and the difficulty of persuading them that they are worth putting
on record, a very dainty compliment--just the thing to figure on
a valentine--may often be found compressed into their diminutive
compass. To turn such airy nothings into a language foreign and
uncongenial to them, is like manipulating a soap-bubble: the bubble
vanishes, and we have only a little soapy water left in the hollow
of our hand: a simile which unhappily is not far from holding good of
attempts at translating any species of Italian popular poetry. It
is true that in _Fra Lippo Lippi_ there are two or three charming
imitations of the _stornello_; but, then, Mr Browning is the poet who,
of all others, has got most inside of the Italian mind. Here is an
_aubade_, which will give a notion of the unsubstantial stuff the
_ciuri_ are made of:
Rosa marina,
Lucinu l'alba e la stidda Diana:
Lu cantu e fattu, addui, duci Rusina.
"Rose of the sea, the dawn and the star Diana are shining: the song is
done, farewell sweet Rosina."
One of these flower-poets, invoking the Violet by way of heading,
tells his love that "all men who look on her forget their sorrows;"
another takes his oath that she outrivals sun, and moon, and stars.
"Jasmine of Araby," cries a third, "when thou art not near, I am
consumed by rage." A fourth says, "White floweret, before thy door I
make a great weeping." A fifth, night and day, bewails his evil fate.
A sixth observes that he has been singing for five hours, but that
he might just as well sing to the wind. A seventh feels the thorns
of jealousy. An eighth asks, "Who knows if Rosa will not listen to
another lover?" A ninth exclaims,
Flower of the night,
Whoever wills me ill shall die to-night!
With which ominous sentiment I will leave the _ciuri_, and pass on
to the yet more interesting _canzuni_: little poems, usually in eight
lines, of which there are so many thousand graceful specimens that it
is embarrassing to have to make a selection.
Despite the wide gulf which separates lettered from illiterate poetry,
it is curious to note the not unfrequent coincidence between the
thought of the ignorant peasant bard and that of cultured poets. In
particular, we are now and then reminded of the pretty conceits of
Herrick, and also of the blithe paganism, the happy unconsciousness
that "Pan is dead," which lay in the nature of that most incongruous
of country parsons. Thus we find a parallel to "Gather ye Rosebuds:"
Sweet, let us pick the fresh and opening rose,
Which doth each charm of form and hue display:
Hard by the margent of yon font it blows,
Mid guarding thorns and many a tufted spray;
And in yourself while springtide freshly glows,
Dear heart, with some sweet bloom my love repay:
Soon winter comes, all flowers to nip and close,
Nor love itself can hinder time's decay.
No poet is more determined to deal out his compliments in a liberal,
open-handed way than is the Sicilian. While the Venetians and the
Tuscans are content with claiming seven distinctive beauties for
the object of their affection, the Sicilian boldly asserts that his
_bedda_ possesses no less than thirty-three _biddizzi_. In the same
manner, when he is about sending his salutations, he sends them
without stint:
Many the stars that sparkle in the sky,
Many the grains of sand and pebbles small;
And in the ocean's plains the finny fry
And leaves that flourish in the woods and fall,
Countless earth's human hordes that live and die,
The flowers that wake to life at April's call,
And all the fruits the summer heats supply--
My greetings sent to thee out-number all.
On some rare occasions the incident which suggested the song may be
gathered from the lips of the person who recites it. In one case we
are told that a certain sailor, on his return from a long voyage,
hastened to the house of his betrothed, to bid her prepare for the
wedding. But he was met by the mother-in-law elect, who told him to go
his way, for his love was dead--the truth being that she had meanwhile
married a shoemaker. One fine day the disconsolate sailor had the not
unmixed gratification of seeing her alive and well, looking out of her
husband's house, and that night he sang her a reproachful serenade,
inquiring wherefore she had hidden from him, that though dead to him
she lived for another? This deceived mariner must have been a
rather exceptional individual, for although there are baker-poets,
carpenter-poets, waggoner-poets, poets in short of almost every branch
of labour and humble trade, a sailor-poet is not often to be heard of.
Dr Pitre remarks that sailors pick up foreign songs in their voyages,
mostly English and American, and come home inclined to look down upon
the folk-songs and singers of their native land.
The serenades and aubades are among the most delicate and elegant of
all the _canzuni d'amuri_; this is one, which contains a favourite
fancy of peasant lovers:
Life of my life, who art my spirit and soul,
By no suspicions be nor doubts oppressed,
Love me, and scorn false jealousy's control--
I not a thousand hearts have in my breast,
I had but one, and gave to thee the whole.
Come then and see, if thou the truth wouldst test,
Instead of my own heart, my love, my soul,
Thou wilt thine image find within my breast!