  "Ride a cock horse."—Page 70.
National Rhymes of the Nursery
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i004 INTRODUCTION It is a good many years since Peacock, in one of those curiously ill-tempered and not particularly happy attacks on the Lake poets, with which he chose to diversify his earlier novels, conceived, as an ornament of "Mainchance Villa," a grand allegorical picture, depicting the most famous characters of English Nursery Tales, Rhymes, &c.—Margery Daw, Jack and Jill, the other Jack who built the House, the chief figures of "that sublime strain of immortal genius" called Dickory Dock, and the third Jack, Horner, eating a symbolic Christmas pie. At the date of Melincourt, in which this occurs, its even then admirable author was apt to shoot his arrows rather at a venture; and it may be hoped, without too much rashness, that he did not mean to speak disrespectfully of the "sublime strain of immortal genius" itself, but only of what he thought Wordsworth's corrupt following of that and similar things. Nevertheless, if he had lived a little longer, or if (for he lived quite long enough) he had been in the mind for such game, he might have found fresh varieties of it in certain more modern handlings of the same subject. Since the Brothers Grimm founded modern folklore, it has required considerable courage to approach nursery songs and nursery tales in any but a spirit of the severest "scientism," which I presume to be the proper form for the method of those who call themselves "scientists." We have not only had investigations—some of them by no means unfruitful or uninteresting investigations—into certain things which are, or may be, the originals of these artless compositions in history or in popular manners. We have not only had some of their queer verbal jingles twisted back again into what may have been an articulate and authentic meaning. I do not know that many of them have been made out to be sun-myths; but that yesterday popular, to-day rather discredited, system of exposition is very evidently as applicable to them as to anything else. The older variety of mystical and moral interpretation having gone out of fashion before they had emerged from the contempt of the learned, it has not been much applied to them, though the temptation is great, for, as King Charles observes in "Woodstock," most things in the world remind one of the tales of Mother Goose. But the most special attentions that nursery rhymes have received have, perhaps, taken the form of the elaborate and ingenious divisions attempted by Halliwell and others. Indeed, something of the kind has been so common that the absence here of anything similar may excite some surprise, and look like disrespect to a scientific age. The omission, however, is designed, and a reason or two may be rendered for it. Halliwell (to take the most generally known instance) has no less than seventeen compartments in which he stows remorselessly these "things that are old and pretty," to apply to them a phrase that Lamb loved. There are, it seems, historical nursery rhymes, literal nursery rhymes; nursery rhymes narrative, proverbial, scholastic, lyrical, riddlesome; rhymes dealing with charms, with gaffers and gammers, with games, with paradoxes, with lullabies, with jingles, with love and matrimony, with natural (I wish he had called it unnatural) history, with accumulative stories, with localities, with relics. It may be permitted to cry "Mercy on us," when one thinks of the poor little wildings, so full of nature and, if not ignorant of art, of an art so cunningly concealed, being subjected to the trimmings and torturings of the Ars Topiaria after this fashion. The division is clearly arbitrary and non-natural; it is often what logicians very properly object to as a "cross"-division; it leads to the inclusion of many things which are not properly nursery rhymes at all; and it necessitates, or at least gives occasion to, a vast amount of idle talk. For instance, take King Arthur, this way, that way, which way you please: as a hero of history, as a great central figure of romance, or even (I grieve to say a learned friend of mine is wont to speak of him so) as a "West-Welsh thief." Are we called upon in the very slightest degree to connect any of these Arthurs with the artist of the bag-pudding? to discuss what was the material that Queen Guinevere preferred for frying, and to select the most probable "noblemen" from the Table Round? Does anybody, except as a rather ponderous joke, care to discuss whether King Cole was really father of Constantine's mother, and had anything to do with Colchester? Though it may be admitted that a "Colchester carpet-bag," that is to say, a very thick steak all but sliced through and stuffed with oysters, would probably not have been unacceptable to the monarch as a preliminary to the bowl. The simple fact seems to be, that one of Halliwell's partitions—"jingles"—will do for the whole seventeen, and do a great deal better than the other sixteen of them. It may be perfectly true that most of the things indicated in these class-names supplied, in this case and that, basis for the jingle, starting-points, texts, and so forth. But all genuine nursery rhymes (even in fragments such as "Martin Swart and his men, Sodledum [saddle them], sodledum," if it is genuine, and others where definite history comes in) have never become nursery rhymes until the historical fact has been practically forgotten by those who used them, and nothing but the metrical and musical attraction remains. Some of the alphabet and number rhymes may possibly (it is sad to have to confess it) have been composed with a deliberate purpose of instruction; but it is noticeable that these have never become quite the genuine thing, except in cases such as— "Big A, little a, bouncing B, where the subtle tendency to nonsense takes the weak intention of sense on its back as a fox does a chicken and runs right away with it. Again, it would be rash to say that it is impossible to make out popular customs and popular beliefs from these texts. But it is quite certain that they have for the most part left the customs and the beliefs a long way behind them, that these things are, to vary the metaphor, merely in palimpsest relation to the present purport and contents of the rhymes. Perhaps, therefore, while not grudging folklorists their perquisitions in this delightful region, and while acknowledging that there are many interesting things to be found out by them in it, we may be permitted to look at nursery rhymes from a rather different point of view. And from this point it will not, I think, be fanciful to see in them, to a great extent, the poetical appeal of sound as opposed to that of meaning expressed in its simplest and most unmistakable terms. We shall find in these pieces the two special pillars of all modern poetry, alliteration and rhyme, or at least assonance, which is only rhyme undeveloped. And we shall find something else, which I venture to call the attraction of the inarticulate. It is not necessary to take the cynical sense of the famous saying, that language was given to man to conceal his thoughts, in order to admit that in moments of more intense and genuine feeling, if not of thought, he does not as a rule use or at least confine himself to articulate speech. If the "little language" of mothers to babies be set down to a supposition that the object addressed does not understand, that will hardly explain the other "little language" of lovers to lovers, which has a tendency to be nearly as inarticulate as a cradle-song, and quite as corruptive of dictionary speech as a nursery rhyme. In the very stammering of rage there may be thought to be something more than a simple inability to choose between words; and in the moaning of sorrow something more than an inability to find suitable expression. All children—and children, as somebody (I forget who he was, but he was a wise man) has said, are usually very clever people till they get spoilt—fall naturally, long after they are quite able to express themselves as it is called rationally, into a sort of pleasant gibberish when they are alone and pleased, or even displeased. And I dare say that a fair number of very considerably grown-up folk, who have not only come to the legal years of discretion but to the poetical age of wisdom, do the like now and then. "As one walks by oneself, by the seaside or on a lonely country road, it must be a not infrequent experience of most people that one frequently falls into pure jingle and nonsense-verse of the nursery kind. In fact, it must have happened to more people than one, or one thousand, by the malice of a sudden corner or the like, to have been caught doing so to their great confusion, and to the comfortable conviction of the other party that he has met with an escaped lunatic. I should myself, though I may not carry many people with me, go farther than this and say that this "attraction of the inarticulate," this allurement of mere sound and sequence, has a great deal more to do than is generally thought with the charm of the very highest poetry, and that no merely valuable thought presented without this accompaniment can possibly affect us as it does when it summons to its aid such concert of vowels and consonants as— "Peace! peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast That sucks the nurse asleep?" or as— "QuÆrens me sedisti lassus,Redemisti crucem passus; Tantus labor non sit cassus!" In the best nursery rhymes, as in the simpler and more genuine ballads which have so close a connection with them, we find this attraction of the inarticulate—this charm of pure sound, this utilising of alliteration and rhyme and assonance, and the cunning juxtaposition now of similar, now of contrary vowels—not in a passionate, but in a frank and simple form. Many of them probably, some of them certainly, had, as has been said, a definite meaning once, and we may attend to the folklorist as he expounds what it was or may have been; but for the most part they have very victoriously got the better of that meaning, have bid it, in their own lingo, "go to Spain," without the slightest meditation or back-thought whether Spain is the proper place for it or not. In that particular locus classicus "Spain" rhymes to "rain," and that is not merely the chief and principal, but the absolutely all-sufficient thing. So, too, there is no doubt a most learned explanation of the jargon (variously given and spelt)— "Hotum-potum, paradise tantum, perry-merry-dictum, domaree," at which a friend of mine used to laugh consumedly, declaring that this cavalier coupling of "paradise tantum" "only paradise," was the nicest thing he knew. But the people who mellowed it into that form, and recited it afterwards, never cared one scrap for the meaning. They had got it into a pleasant jingle of vowels, a desirable sequence of consonants, and a good swing of cadence, and that was enough. When "Curlylocks" is invited to be "mine" by the promise "thou shalt sew a fine seam," does anybody suppose that this housewifely operation was much more (it may have been a little more) of a bait to the Curlylocks of those days than to the Curlylocks of these? Not at all. "Sew" and "seam" went naturally together, they made a pleasing alliteration, and the latter word rhymed to "cream," of which the Curlylocks of all days has been not unusually fond. Not, of course, that there is not much wit and much wisdom, much picturesqueness and not a little pathos in our rhymes. All good men have justly admired these qualities in "Sing a Song of Sixpence" and "Ding-dong Bell," in "Margery Daw" and "Who Killed Cock Robin?" I rather suspect the wicked literary man of having more to do than genuine popular sentiment with the delightful progress and ending of "There was a Little Boy and a Little Girl." But the undoubtedly genuine notes are numerous enough and various enough, from that previously mentioned and admirable thrift of good King Arthur, or rather of Queen Guinevere (from whom, according to naughty romancers, we should have less expected it), to the sound common-sense of "Three Children;" from the decorative convention of "Little Boy Blue" to the arabesque and even grotesque of "Hey-diddle-diddle." But I shall still contend that the main, the pervading, the characteristic attraction of them lies in their musical accompaniment of purely senseless sound, in their rhythm, rhyme, jingle, refrain, and the like, in the simplicity and freshness of their modulated form. For thus they serve as anthems and doxologies to the goddess whom in this context it is not satirical to call "Divine Nonsensia," who still in all lands and times condescends now and then to unbind the burden of meaning from the backs and brains of men, and lets them rejoice once more in pure, natural, senseless sound.
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i006 INDEX TO FIRST LINES
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