Go into thy bed, take thee a slumber,
Reflect now on the last hour;
Reflect now,
That thou mayest take thy last slumber.
Analogous in spirit is a quatrain that has been known to me since
childhood, but which I do not remember to have seen in print:
I lay me down to rest me,
And pray the Lord to bless me.
If I should sleep no more to wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
The _Petite Patenotre Blanche_ lingers in France in a variety of
shapes. One version was written down as late as 1872 from the mouth of
an old woman named Catherine Bastien, an inhabitant of the department
of the Loire. It was afterwards communicated to _Melusine_.
Jesu m'endort,
Si je trepasse, mande mon corps,
Si je trepasse, mande mon ame,
Si je vis, mande mon esprit.
(Je) prends les anges pour mes amis,
Le bon Dieu pour mon pere,
La Sainte Vierge pour ma mere,
Saint Louis de Gonzague,
Aux quatre coins de ma chambre,
Aux quatre coins be mon lit;
Preservez moi de l'ennemi,
Seigneur, a l'heure de ma mort.
Quenot, in his _Statistique de la Charante_ (1818), gives the
subjoined:
Dieu l'a faite, je la dit;
J'ai trouve quatre anges couches dans mon lit;
Deux a la tete, deux aux pieds,
Et le bon Dieu aux milieu.
De quoi puis-je avoir peur?
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 petition 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 instituted 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
Pass away;
Two to cover me
Warm and nice,
And two to lead me
To Paradise.
Passing on to Italy we find an embarrassing 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 God, 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 cumpagnia 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 God, 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
recumbent 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
gratitude 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 superstitions 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 God,
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 superstition, 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 God! 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 God'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.